

t 





































































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* 






























DOBIS 


CHEYNE 


Ube Storg of a iRoble 3L(fe 


a y 

ANNIE S. SWAN, 

"A vx 

OF ' 


AUTHOR OF 

‘ALDERSYDE,’ ‘GATES OF EDEN,’ ‘BRIAR AND PALM,’ ETC., ETC. 


American Edition. 


JUI 281890 

v. ^shingto^v 


CINCINNATI: 

CRANSTON AND STOWE. 

NEW YORK: 

HUNT AND EATON. 








CONTENTS. 


CHAP. PAGE 

I. UNPREPARED, 9 

II. WHAT IS TO BECOME OF US ? ... 29 

III. AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE, 44 

IV. A DARK HOUR, G3 

V. GABRIEL WINDRIDGE, 77 

VI. SISTERS, 95 

VII. A WORLDLY WOMAN, 113 

VIII. FACING THE FUTURE, 128 

IX. PERPLEXITIES, 147 

X. AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE, 159 

XI. TRUE TO HERSELF, . . . . , . 173 

XII. AT AN END, 190 

XIII. YOUTH AND AGE, 203 

xiv. prescott’s will, . . . # . . 217 

xv. sympathy, . 230 

XVI. A BRAVE WOMAN, •••••• 243 

XVII. WAYS AND MEANS, • . . . . . 261 

XVIII. DAWNING LIGHT, 274 

XIX. NEW PROSPECTS, 287 


XX. HER PLACE, 































* 





















ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE. 

portrait of author, Frontispiece. 

RYDAL WATER AND NAB SCAR, 47 

GRASMERE CHURCHYARD, 73 

DERWENTWATER AND SKIDDAW, 141 

DERWENTWATER FROM SCAFELL, 181 

WINDERMERE, 253 

GRASMERE CHURCH, 299 

VIEW FROM RYDAL MOUNT, 317 







5 










































































































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DORIS CIIEYNE 


AMERICAN EDITION. 


This book is published in America under special con- 
tract with its Edinburgh Publishers, Messes. Oliphant, 
Anderson & Ferrier. 

The American Publishers have not changed the orig- 
inal orthography. Our neighbo(u)rs across the ocean 
are fond of the diphthong “ou,” and have no “ z” in 
their “ civilisation but this story is none the less in- 
teresting for that. 



DORIS CHEYNE. 

CHAPTER I 

UNPREPARED. 

‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies, 

But in battalions I’ 

Shakespeare, 

HAVE not consulted the girls, Uncle 
Penfold, but in all probability we shall 
elect to remain in this house. It has 
been our home so long, that though we shall be 
daily reminded of our loss, I am sure we shall all 
be happier here than anywhere else. Then we are 
surrounded by friends, whose sympathy and com- 
panionship will somewhat soften our sorrow/ 

Mrs. Cheyne delivered her neat little speech with 
a certain quiet pathos, which sat admirably upon her. 
She wiped her eyes with her deep black-bordered 




io DORIS CHEYNE, 

handkerchief, and gave a gentle sigh as she looked 
complacently into the lawyer’s face. She had called 
him Uncle Penfold, but in reality he was only a 
distant relative, with whom they had always been 
on intimate terms. 

At great personal inconvenience, and in wild 
wintry weather, he had travelled from London to 
the Lake country to attend the funeral of Eobert 
Cheyne. Perhaps, had the circumstances of his 
death been different, and his affairs less complicated, 
Jacob Penfold would have excused himself to the 
widow and family, and sent his condolences by post. 
It was pity for Emily Cheyne and her daughters that 
had brought him to Rydal that dreary November day. 

While Mrs. Cheyne was speaking, his keen quiet 
eye was fixed on her pretty faded face, and there was 
deep compassion in that look. Emily Cheyne was 
a woman who could be measured almost at a glance. 
She was kind-hearted, affectionate, lovable, so long as 
all went well ; but what in the hour of trouble ? 
The most of us have had some experience of these 
butterfly natures, which the winds of adversity 
harden and sour, making them fretful, peevish, 
discontented, and wholly selfish. 


UNPREPARED. 


1 1 


t 

After that penetrating look Mr. Penfold dropped 
his eyes on the table, and fidgeted with finger and 
thumb among certain documents lying thereon. 
The task before him was not pleasant; shrewd, 
hard-headed man of business though he was, Jacob 
Penfold at that moment wished himself a thousand 
miles away from the Swallows’ Nest. 

‘Did Kobert speak much of his affairs before he 
died, Mrs. Cheyne ? ’ he asked at length. 

‘ Dear me, no ! You need scarcely ask. It was 
all so dreadfully sudden. How could he have any 
time to speak or think of wills or such things; a 
man in the prime of life, and who never had a day’s 
illness in his life ? But, of course, he always 
intended that I should get everything. Yes, he 
had every confidence in me, and we were very 
happy,’ said Mrs. Cheyne, and her tears fell afresh. 

Mr. Penfold fidgeted yet more nervously with the 
papers on the table. In what words, he wondered, 
should he acquaint this unconscious, self-satisfied 
woman with the stern fact that her future, instead 
of being, as she fondly imagined, one of ease and 
affluence, must be darkened immediately by the 
shadows of poverty and care ? 


12 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


‘You are not aware, then, that he speculated 
largely during the last years of his life?’ he asked 
gravely. 

‘ No ; I knew nothing about Robert’s business 
affairs. He never troubled me with them. It was 
his constant aim to keep me in ease and freedom 
from care. He was indeed the best of husbands/ 

Emily Cheyne was sincere in the tribute she paid 
to her dead husband. He had indeed sheltered and 
cared for her very tenderly. Had he been less 
solicitous for her absolute ease, she might have been 
better prepared for her fallen fortunes. 

‘May I ask your attention for a few minutes, 
Emily, while I endeavour to explain this unhappy 
business to you as simply as possible ? * said the 
lawyer, in his calm, grave, professional manner. 
Arrested by his words and looks, Mrs. Cheyne dried 
her eyes, and fixed them, in soft bewilderment, on 
his face. Mr. Penfold did not like that look ; there 
was no strength of character, no firmness of will in 
it. He feared the result of the communication he 
was about to make. 

‘ You know well enough, I think/ he began, ‘ that 
I never approved of Robert retiring from business in 


UNPREPARED. 


*3 


his prime. A man who has been long accustomed 
to an active life cannot live in idle seclusion. Either 
he must get some engrossing hobby to ride, or he 
will fall into mischief. I am sorrow to say, that 
the demon of speculation — it is nothing less — got 
possession of Eobert ; and to my certain knowledge, 
he risked his means often in a foolish and wicked 
manner. I frequently remonstrated with him, but 
it was of no avail. You know that he was a man 
who would have his own way, who would go the full 
length of his tether, if I may so put it. That was 
his weakness/ 

Mrs. Cheyne drew herself up a little, resenting the 
tone in which the lawyer spoke of her late husband. 

* I really don’t know what you mean by all this 
tirade against my dear husband, Mr. Penfold, ’ she 
said stiffly. * On the very day of the funeral, too ! 
It is as extraordinary as it is unkind/ 

‘ I am trying to prepare you for what I have to 
tell you, Emily,’ said the lawyer quietly. ‘ I suppose 
I had better out with it plainly, or you will not 
understand me. Briefly, then, Eobert’s death is a 
greater calamity even than you have imagined, for 
he has left next to nothing. It will be impossible 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


for you to live in anything like the style to which 
you have been accustomed.’ 

As he spoke he glanced suggestively round the 
handsomely - furnished room in which they stood. 
It was the library of the house, and contained not 
only expensive furniture, but a large and valuable 
collection of hooks. Eobert Cheyne had had his 
fine tastes ; well for the helpless women he had left 
had he been content with these. 

‘ There must be some mistake,’ said Emily Cheyne 
incredulously. ‘ Eobert made a great deal of money 
in business ; quite a fortune in fact, and he bought 
the Swallows’ Nest. It is impossible that his money 
can be all gone already. We have been only six 
years here; we came on Eose’s eleventh birthday, 
and she will be sixteen next week.’ 

‘It is quite true, Emily. I only wish it were 
less so. These rash speculations on the Stock 
Exchange have not only swallowed up the hard- 
won earnings of a lifetime, they have cost him 
his life. There cannot be a doubt that anxiety 
undermined his constitution, and prepared the way 
for the shock under which he succumbed. Don’t 
think me harsh and cruel, Emily. I do feel for 


UNPREPARED. 


*5 

you ; but I cannot help my indignation at . Robert’s 
folly.’ 

4 What are we to do, Uncle Penfold ? Explain it 
again,’ said Mrs. Cheyne very pitifully. She had 
received a great shock. 

‘You’ll need to leave this place, and your girls 
will need to turn their hands to work. It will be 
their duty and privilege now to make you feel the 
difference as little- as possible.’ 

‘ Is it so bad as that ? Are we beggars, Uncle 
Penfold ? ’ 

‘After all just claims are settled, there will be 
very little left,’ answered the lawyer candidly. 

‘ But there is the house. Robert paid three 
thousand pounds for it. If we sell it, that will 
be something,’ said the widow eagerly. 

Mr. Penfold shook his head. 

‘ It is no longer yours, Emily. I question if even 
you will be allowed to claim the furniture.’ 

‘ This is terrible!’ said Emily Cheyne, with a kind 
of wail. ‘ What is to become of us ? ’ 

‘ You must not despair, Emily. There are five 
strong young women up-stairs who ought to, and I 
would fain hope will, bear the burden for you,’ said 


1 6 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


the lawyer practically. ‘ They will have a chance 
now to redeem the time, and to make good account 
of the means their father spent so lavishly on their 
education and accomplishments. There are many 
who have less to fall back upon/ 

Mrs. Cheyne wrung her hands. No face ever 
wore a more pitifully helpless expression than hers 
did at that moment. 

4 You are quite sure there is no mistake, Uncle 
Tenfold ? ’ 

‘ I only wish I were less sure/ was the grave 
reply. ‘ I need not assure you, Emily, that you may 
rely upon any assistance I may have it in my power 
to offer you. I am not a rich man. I have pur- 
sued my business in the old slow beaten tracks where 
no fortunes are made. But I will do my best for 
you. I must return to London to-morrow, but I 
shall be glad to answer any communication you may 
address to me after you have consulted with your 
daughters ; and if I can do any good by coming back 
again, I shall come/ 

Mrs. Cheyne did not acknowledge the lawyer’s 
offer of assistance. I am not sure even that she 
heard it. She walked away out of the room without 


UNPREPARED. 


17 


uttering another word, and left her adviser to his own 
meditations. He stood for a few minutes in the 
same attitude, absently fingering the papers before 
him, his face wearing an expression of deep thought. 
Jacob Penfold was indeed perplexed regarding the 
future of the six helpless women up-stairs. 

He was not, however, long left to his ruminations, 
for he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs on the 
approach, and presently the loud ring at the hall 
bell sent its deep echoes resounding through the 
silent house. Shortly thereafter the library door 
was opened, and a gentleman shown in. Mr. 
Penfold looked up quickly, and then returned, with 
some stiffness perhaps, the bow and bland smile 
with which the intruder favoured him. He re- 
cognised the face as one he had observed among 
the mourners at the burying -ground a few hours 
before. 

4 Afternoon, sir,’ said the stranger affably. * Cold- 
ish day.’ 

‘Very,’ was the lawyer’s brief reply. ‘But it 
is seasonable. We look for wintry weather in 
November.’ 

‘So we do, we do,’ said the stranger, nodding 
2 


i8 


DORIS CHEYNE . 


complacently. ‘ I’d better introduce myself, I 
suppose. My name is Hardwicke, sir; Josiah 
Hardwicke of Hardwicke Manor, at your service. 
An intimate friend of the deceased, and a sincere 
sympathizer with the bereaved family.’ 

The lawyer gravely bowed. 

* My name is Penfold,’ he said, but made no effort 
to sustain a conversation. He was, indeed, not 
greatly drawn towards the Squire of Hardwicke 
Manor. Certainly his appearance was not pre- 
possessing. He was a short, squat man, with a 
bald head, and a fat, sleek, complacent face, adorned 
by bushy grey whiskers. He was well dressed in 
the garb of a country squire, and had a great 
quantity of jewellery about him, his fat hands 
being ablaze with brilliant rings. He presented a 
great contrast indeed to the slender, spare, meek- 
looking little lawyer, whose appearance would never 
attract the slightest attention anywhere. 

Mr. Hardwicke had about him an air of easy self- 
satisfaction and complacency, which seemed to 
indicate that his position was assured, and that 
the word care had no meaning for him. But though 
his outward expression was one of affable good- 


UNPREPARED . 


19 


nature, he had a keen, hard eye, with a peculiarly 
cunning gleam, which did not commend itself to the 
discriminating observation of Jacob Penfold. 

‘ You are a connection of poor Cheyne’s, I believe,’ 
he said, by way of passing the time, while he waited 
a message from the ladies. * Very sudden for him, 
wasn’t it ? ’ he added, rubbing his large fat hands 
complacently together. * He was a fine fellow, Bob ; 
pity he got so foolish latterly. Fact is, Mr. Penfold, 
few folks can work the Stock Exchange to advantage. 
It requires a life-long apprenticeship, and even then, 
unless you’re uncommonly sharp, you’ll likely be 
nipped. I was born speculating, so to speak — for 
my father was a stockbroker, and he taught me all 
the tips he knew. Then I picked up a lot for 
myself, being rather wide-awake, so I’ve made a 
pretty good thing out of it, but it was very different 
with poor Bob Cheyne.’ 

‘ You say you were intimate with him, Mr. 
Hardwicke. Did you never try to show him his 
folly ? ’ 

* Didn’t I, just ! ’ said Mr. Hardwicke, with a grin. 
‘ I was always at him, but, bless me, it was no use. 
If Bob Cheyne was anything, he was self-willed, and 


20 


BORIS CHEYNE. 


so it has all come to an end. Do you know what 
they are saying up at Ambleside ? * he added, lower- 
ing his voice. ‘ They’re hinting that he didn’t die 
a natural death. That when he knew how bad 
things had turned out, he took his own life. Do 
you suppose that's true, now ? ’ 

* No, I don’t ; it’s a vile calumny, just like the 
tittle-tattle of these little places,’ exclaimed the 
lawyer hotly. ‘I was particular in my inquiries, 
and that fine young fellow, the surgeon at Grasmere, 
assured me he died of syncope and failure of the 
heart’s action, due to intense excitement. No, sir; 
Eobert Cheyne was not such a coward as that.’ 

‘ Very glad to hear it, I’m sure, for the sake of 
the poor ladies up-stairs,’ said Mr. Hardwicke, not 
in the least ruffled by the lawyer’s frowning brows 
and indignant voice. * Fine woman, Mrs. Cheyne, 
and fine girls, particularly fine girls every one of them. 
Fact is, where there are so many pretty flowers in 
the bouquet, it’s not easy to know which to admire 
most, eh, Mr. Penfold ? ’ 

Mr. Penfold’s face assumed an expression of 
intense disgust. He felt much inclined to order 
the affable squire out of the house. What right 


UNPREPARED. 


21 


liad this vulgar, self-satisfied, impertinent man to 
intrude at such an unseasonable time ? 

* So there’s nothing left ? ’ continued the squire 
more soberly, seeing his little pleasantly had fallen 
rather flat. ‘ Pity for the old lady and the young 
ones. But I guess more than one of them have 
good cards to play, if they only play them out 
careful. That’s the whole secret of success in life. 
I always say it’s just like a rubber at whist. Play 
out your trumps in due course, and you’ll swim into 
fortune ; play ’em wrong, and the game’s up.’ 

‘ You appear to have studied the game of life, Mr. 
Hardwick e,’ said Jacob Penfold, with mild sarcasm. 

* So I have, or I wouldn’t be where I am to-day, 
as snug as I can be at the Manor. It’s a fine place, 
though I say it, but for that matter you will get 
plenty to endorse my statement. If you are making 
a stay, I’ll be glad to see you over to a knife and 
fork. I’ll promise you as good a drop of Madeira as 
ever you tasted in your life.’ 

‘Thank you, sir, but I return to London by an 
early train to-morrow.’ 

‘ Eh well, another time, perhaps, I may have the 
pleasure,’ said the squire affably. * But to return to 


22 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


the ladies. I was in earnest about the cards, Mr. 
Penfold. Young Windridge, the surgeon, of whom 
you spoke so favourably a minute ago, — though I 
must say he is an upsetting young ass, — is as sweet 
as he can be on Miss Miriam. They say she’s the 
beauty, but give me Miss — Eh well, my girl, 
what message ? ’ he broke off suddenly, as a servant 
appeared at the door. 

* Mrs. Cheyne’s compliments, sir, and she is sorry 
she will not be able to see Mr. Hardwicke to-day ; 
but if he will take the trouble to call to-morrow, she 
will be glad to see him.’ 

‘ All right, my girl. My compliments to your 
mistress, and I’ll ride over to-morrow morning, about 
eleven. Good evening, Mr. Penfold. Happy to 
meet you, sir. Hope we may have the pleasure of 
becoming better acquainted some day.’ 

The lawyer thanked him, but did not re-echo the 
hope. When he was again left alone, he walked to 
the window and watched the squire mount his 
beautiful thoroughbred, and ride away. When he 
was out of sight, the lawyer left the room, and, 
taking his hat from the rack, went out of doors. As 
he passed out he could hear the sound of excited 


UNPREPARED . 


23 


voices in the drawing-room, and again that look of 
deep and kindly compassion came upon his face. 
Jacob Penfold was sincerely sorry for the helpless 
women upon whom the burden of Eobert Cheyne’s 
folly had so cruelly fallen. 

He drew a breath of relief as he stepped out to 
the gravelled sweep before the door, and stood still a 
moment, looking about him somewhat sadly. Even 
in the subdued grey light of that wintry afternoon, 
it was a lovely and desirable place, the home where 
Eobert Cheyne had expected to pass so many happy 
years. The house, a long low building of only one 
storey, but possessing large accommodation, was built 
upon the brow of a hill which looked down upon 
the little hamlet of Eydal and the quiet still waters 
of Eydal Mere. It was sheltered on every side by 
noble trees, which, though now bare and leafless, 
still broke the fierceness of such winds as found 
their way into that sheltered vale. The ample 
grounds were tastefully laid out, and made the house 
perfectly secluded, although the approach was not 
long, and opened upon the public road. 

Jacob Penfold looked about him with a sigh, and 
then began to walk slowly along the avenue towards 


24 


DORIS CHEYNE . 


the pretty entrance-gate. Then, with a kindly nod 
to the lodge-keeper’s little hoy, who ran out to open 
it for him, he sauntered out to the road and turned 
his steps down the hill. 

The descent from the Swallows’ Nest to the high 
road was like the approach to a mansion-house, so 
evenly and closely were the trees planted, with their 
great boughs interlacing overhead. There were low- 
sloping green banks on either side, which in the 
spring and summer were covered with the bloom of 
the sweet wild-flowers which grow in such profusion 
in the district. They were bare and bleached now 
with the wild rains which had ushered in drear 
November, and the sodden leaves lay thickly under 
foot. It was one of those still, grey, chilly days 
when the air seems soundless, as if some dead weight 
oppressed it — not a pleasant day to be in the country. 
Yet Jacob Penfold enjoyed it after his own quiet 
fashion, and saw beauties in the grey November 
landscape which might have escaped a less observant 
eye. When he reached the high road he crossed it 
at once, and cutting through a narrow belt of trees, 
found himself at the edge of Eydal Water. It was 
like a dead thing ; there was no ripple on its breast. 


UNPREPARED. 


25 

nor a motion among the tall reeds standing so 
solemnly erect at its edge, yet it reflected the 
leaden sky and the green slopes of the encircling 
hills. 

The silence was almost oppressive; and when 
suddenly he heard the quick sharp click of horses’ 
hoofs approaching from the direction of Ambleside, 
the solitary stroller almost started. He retraced the 
few steps to the road, feeling a trifle curious, perhaps, 
to see the horseman. 

‘ Good evening, Mr. Penfold,’ cried a cheery voice, 
even before Mr. Penfold had recognised the grey 
cob and its rider. * Contemplating the mystic beauty 
of Rydal Mere ? Rather dreary work on such a 
night ? ' 

* Rather/ answered the lawyer, and stepped on to 
the road while the horseman drew rein. He was a 
young fellow of six or seven-and-twenty, with a well- 
built manly figure and a strong decided cast of face, 
redeemed from harshness by the mobile mouth and 
the kindly gleam of the honest grey eye. He wore 
a tweed suit and cap and a pair of top-boots, and 
looked more like a young squire or a gentleman 
farmer than a professional man. Such was Gabriel 


26 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


Windridge, surgeon, assistant to the oldest practi- 
tioner in Grasmere. 

* It is a pity you had not seen our classic ground 
in more propitious weather, Mr. Penfold, ’ continued 
the surgeon. ‘But perhaps it may improve before 
you return to town/ 

‘That is hardly likely, as I return to-morrow 
morning/ answered the lawyer. ‘ But this is not my 
first visit to Bydal/ 

‘ I suppose not. I have just been at Ambleside, 
Mr. Penfold. Forgive me for repeating a rumour I 
heard there ; hut is it true that the poor ladies up 
yonder/ he said, nodding towards the Swallows’ Nest, 
‘ are left in straits ? * 

‘ Quite true, Mr. Windridge ; they will be nearly 
penniless/ 

The surgeon whistled. Perhaps it was out of 
place, the subject being grave, but it was a boyish 
habit he had never rid himself of, and somehow it 
did not sit ill upon him. 

‘ I am very sorry to hear it, sir/ he said at length, 
and his honest eyes confirmed his words. ‘What 
will become of them ? * 

‘ They’ll need to work, poor things/ returned the 


UNPREPARED. 


27 


lawyer briefly. * It’ll be hard upon them at first, 
but they are not without resources. They are 
accomplished girls, I believe.’ 

* They are, exceptionally so ; but being accom- 
plished for pleasure and for necessity are two 
different things. It is no kindness to children, Mr. 
Penfold, to rear them without any preparation for 
the vicissitudes of life. There are so many.* 

‘ Ho, it is not right. It is wrong and wicked, but 
I daresay poor Eobert Cheyne never looked at it in 
that light. Poor fellow, he was a most devoted 
husband and father. These women ought to revere 
his memory in spite of this.’ 

The surgeon did not at once reply. Looking at 
his fine face, which seemed just then wonderfully 
softened, Jacob Penfold recalled Mr. Hardwicke’s 
words about Miriam, and decided that she was a 
lucky girl. He had not met any one for a long 
time who attracted him as Gabriel Windridge had 
done that day. 

* I hope some way will be opened up. It would 
be a shame if they should be made to feel the sting of 
poverty/ he said presently, and with slightly height- 
ened colour. ‘Well, I must go ; good-bye, Mr. Penfold/ 


28 


BORIS CHEYNE . 


‘ Good-bye, Mr. Windridge ; I hope to -meet you 
again. I like you ; there is no nonsense about you/ 
said the- lawyer frankly, as he warmly clasped the 
outstretched hand. ‘ If you hear that rumour about 
poor Cheyne’s end, you’ll contradict it, I am sure/ 

‘ Of course I will, flatly. It has no foundation in 
fact. I know who set it abroad; a man whose 
mouth it is impossible to stop. Perhaps you know 
him — Hardwicke of the Manor ? * 

The lawyer nodded. 

‘Yes, I know him. Thank you. It will be well 
if the rumour doesn’t spread. It would be a pity if 
the widow and the girls heard it. Good-bye/ 




CHAPTEE IL 

WHAT IS TO BECOME OF US? 

‘Remember in that perilous hour, 

When most afflicted and oppressed, 

From labour there shall come forth rest.* 

Longfellow. 

HE drawing-room at the Swallows’ Nest was 
a pretty and luxurious apartment, and 
had that homely, comfortable look which 
a room acquires when it is much occupied. The 
furnishings were in the best of taste, and there were 
many specimens of art, both in needlework and 
painting, which told that Mr. Cheyne’s daughters had 
employed some of their leisure for the adorning of 
their home. 

They were all in the drawing-room that November 
afternoon, waiting for their mother to come up to tea. 
On the skin rug before the cheerful fire Eosamond 

29 



3 ° 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


(commonly called Eosie) was stretched at full length, 
deep in the pages of a story - hook. As yet Eosie 
Cheyne had had no grief heavy enough to refuse 
consolation in the magic pen of fiction. She was the 
youngest of the flock, and the pet, because of her 
happy, sunshiny temperament, her unfailing good- 
nature and unselfishness ; she was indeed a sunbeam 
in the house. She was not particularly pretty, being 
of short stature, and having a round, red, comical face. 
Her hair was her one beauty ; it hung in a thick 
brown plait down her back, and had a sheen like gold 
upon it. Sitting quite near to her, so near indeed 
that the black folds of her dress sometimes interfered 
with the turning of the pages, sat the eldest sister 
Miriam. Mr. Hardwicke had spoken truly when he 
alluded to her as the beauty ; there could be no 
comparison between her and any of her sisters. I 
do not know that I shall try to describe her, for when 
each item is written down, what have we, after all ? 
We cannot express in words the Eving grace and 
charm with which every look and movement of a 
beautiful woman is instinct. Miriam Cheyne was 
quite conscious of her great beauty ; she knew her 
own power well. On an ottoman almost in the 


WHAT IS TO BECOME OF US? 


3i 


centre of the room the third and fourth daughters, 
Josephine and Kitty, were poring together over the 
pages of a fashion journal 

Josephine was tall, and pale, and slender, with a 
strong look of her mother about her. Her movements 
were indolent and languid, her manner indifferent, as 
if she had little interest in anything. Josephine 
being delicate in her childhood, had been much in- 
dulged, and was consequently selfish and exacting, 
and rather fretful in her ways. She presented a 
striking contrast to the frank-faced, merry-eyed girl 
beside her. Josephine was a refined and even 
distinguished-looking young woman, Kitty one of the 
most ordinary and commonplace ; but very often the 
commonplace girl is much the better and sweeter 
companion with whom to walk through life. Kitty 
Cheyne was a general favourite, perhaps because she 
was invariably natural and unaffected. She was 
accustomed to speak her mind, and to act accordingly. 

Josephine was more discreet, and sometimes found 
if to her advantage to hold her tongue. 

A little apart from the rest, standing in the side- 
window which commanded a fine view of the sweet 
vale of Grasmere, stood the second daughter, Doris 


32 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


Cheyne, the heroine of my story. Perhaps nobody 
ever looked less like a heroine than Doris Cheyne, or 
more uninteresting than she did at that moment. 

The sombre mourning gown, so exquisitely becoming 
to Miriam’s delicate beauty, seemed to make Doris’s 
sallow face darker in hue, and her hands larger and 
redder than usual. There was no reason why Doris 
should have such hands. She had never been placed 
in the interesting position of a household Cinderella, 
she had never swept or dusted a room, or washed a 
tea-cup in her life. The same dressmaker who took 
such delight in the gracious curves of Miriam’s perfect 
figure was in despair over Doris. Her clothes never 
fitted, and there she was, to the ordinary observer not 
half so attractive as the smart housemaid who had 
just brought in the tray for afternoon tea. Mrs. 
Cheyne was wont to sigh when she spoke of Doris, 
and to refer to her as * a trial.’ Poor Doris ! Some- 
times she was a trial to herself. But had you looked 
into Doris’s eyes just then, as they were fixed with 
a wild passion of yearning on the low-lying mist- 
enveloped roofs of Grasmere, you would probably have 
forgotten all about the awkward figure, the red hands, 
the sallow face, and the stern, resolute mouth ; 


WHAT IS TO BECOME OF US? 


33 


because you would have seen in their troubled depths 
the unspeakable longings of a woman’s noble soul. 

There had not been any talk in the room for some 
time, except Josephine and Kitty’s low- voiced dis- 
cussion of the fashion plates. Kitty was deeply 
interested in the new clothes which their bereavement 
demanded, and she did not think it heartless to 
wonder what new winter shapes of hats and jackets 
Jay would send for their approval. Doris thought 
it strange that they could bear to think about the 
symbols of their sorrow, much less to discuss and 
plan how they should be made ; but then Doris was 
not quite like other women. Had she been better 
favoured, perhaps her interest in gowns might have 
been livelier than it was. 

Kitty glanced once or twice at her, wondering, 
perhaps, how she could stand so long motionless in 
the cold window, but she did not address any remark 
to her. As a rule, Doris did not take much part in 
her sisters’ talk ; she seemed to live outside of their 
circle, and she was seldom consulted on any domestic 
or social question. 

‘ What can mamma and Uncle Penfold be talking, 
about all this time, I wonder ? ’ said Miriam at length 


34 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


seeming to awake suddenly from a reverie. * Don’t 
you think we might have tea, girls ? * 

4 Oh, yes ; do let us have tea,’ cried Kitty, quite 
relieved. 4 When do you suppose the old creature 
means to depart ? ’ 

* To-morrow, I heard him say,’ said Kosie, without 
looking up. 

4 I’m glad of that. I’m rather afraid of Uncle 
Penfold. He always looks at us as if he thought us 
a lot of useless lumber,’ said Kitty candidly. ‘ And 
so I believe we are.’ 

4 Speak for yourself,’ said Miriam, as she rose to 
pour out the tea. 4 Doris, are you chained to that 
window ? you look perfectly blue with cold.’ 

Doris turned round at once. It seemed natural 
for every one to obey the sweet cool tones of Miriam’s 
voice. She was born to command. Just then a 
hurried step sounded in the corridor, the door was 
hastily opened, and to their astonishment, their 
mother rushed into the room and threw herself on a 
couch. In a moment they had all gathered round 
her, in wonder and alarm. 

4 Mamma, what is it ? ’ asked Miriam ; 4 what has 
happened ? ’ 


WHAT IS TO BECOME OF US? 


35 


‘ It’s Uncle Penfold, ’ said Kitty confidently. 
‘ Didn’t I tell you he was an old creature ? * 

Mrs. Cheyne sobbed wildly, and made no reply 
Doris slipped over to the table then, and pouring out 
a cup of tea, brought it to her mother. She drank 
it eagerly, and immediately grew calmer. It is 
interesting and surprising to observe the effect tea 
has on the nerves of some women. After swallowing 
the beverage, Mrs. Cheyne sat up and looked at her 
daughters calmly, though she occasionally wiped her 
eyes with her handkerchief. I am not quite sure 
that she didn’t rather enjoy the surprise she could 
give them. 

4 Girls,’ she said solemnly, ‘ we are beggars.’ 

‘ What are you talking about, mamma ? What do 
you mean ? ’ asked Miriam, a trifle sharply. 

She never gave way to weakness herself, and was 
not very tolerant of it in others. 

‘ I’m sure I’m speaking plain enough,’ said Mrs. 
Cheyne querulously. ‘We are beggars. We haven’t 
a penny left in the world.’ 

‘ How can that be ? ’ asked Miriam, who was always 
the most collected. ‘ If we are beggars, where has 
papa’s money all gone ? ’ 


36 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


‘ 1 don’t know. Your Uncle Penfold says he 
speculated with it and lost it all, and he said a great 
many other things which I must say I thought harsh 
and uncalled for. Your Uncle Penfold was always 
an extraordinary and most unpleasant man; but I 
believe he speaks the truth as a rule, and when he 
solemnly assures me that we have nothing — that even 
the Swallows’ Nest and the very furniture will have 
to be sold to settle claims — I suppose we must believe 
him ; but I must say it is a very hard dispensation 
for a desolate widow,’ said Mrs. Cheyne, and again 
found some relief in tears. 

It was a study, and a sad one, to watch the 
various expressions on the faces of the five girls who 
listened to her words. Blank astonishment and 
dismay prevailed, and on Miriam’s face there was a 
shade of incredulity which indicated that she could 
not realize the full significance of her mother’s an- 
nouncement. No doubt they would all feel the sting 
of their changed circumstances, but to Miriam it 
would be doubly cruel. She loved the good things of 
life with an absorbing love. 

‘ Can’t some of you speak ? ’ asked Mrs. Cheyne, 
looking up with something of an injured air. * Can’t 


WHAT IS TO BECOME OF US? 


37 


some of you suggest something ? What do you 
suppose is to become of us all ? * 

Ah ! what indeed — that was the question of the 
moment. 

* Do you really mean, mamma, that there is 
nothing left ? — that we will be quite poor ? * asked 
Josephine at length. 

* I said beggars, I think/ answered Mrs. Cheyne, 
with asperity. * I couldn’t put it any plainer, and I 
must say, girls, that I think it was very wrong of your 
father to do any such thing. He ought to have had 
some consideration for us. Perhaps I am harsh, but 
what is to become of us ? * 

Doris turned round quickly ana went back to her 
post in the side window, hut nobody paid any heed. 
Doris’s opinion, even in this crisis, could not be of 
much value to anybody. 

* I don’t know what is to become of us,’ said Kitty 
at length, * unless we retire in a body to the work- 
house/ 

* Or become housemaids,’ said Josephine, her lips 
curling. 4 There is a brilliant prospect before us.’ 

‘ Ho, no ! ’ exclaimed Mrs. Cheyne, pathetically 
waving her hand. ‘We are ladies, and we must find 


38 BORIS CHEYNE. 

some genteel occupation. Either you must become 
governesses, or we must open a school.’ 

Miriam Cheyne turned away from them, and walk- 
ing over to the hearth, stood with her eyes gloomily 
on the fire. Her thoughts were very hitter, she could 
not trust herself to speak. Mrs. Cheyne did not like 
the silence which fell upon the girls, she wanted the 
subject discussed at once in all its bearings. It was 
the only luxury remaining to her now. 

* Your Uncle Penfold seems to think we shall be 
very well off. He said it would be your duty and 
privilege to make me feel this calamity as little as 
possible. He said as much as that your father had 
invested money in your education, and that you would 
turn it all to account,’ she said mournfully. ‘ I only 
hope he may be right.’ 

‘ It was wicked of papa to treat us so,’ said Miriam, 
turning round suddenly, her fine eyes flashing as if a 
whirlwind of passion had swept over her. ‘ He 
brought us up like ladies. How did he suppose we 
could accommodate ourselves to poverty on a moment’s 
notice, when we had no preparation for it ? Yes, I 
say it was wicked and heartless.* 

‘Well, when you look at it in that way, it does 


WHAT IS TO BECOME OF US? 


39 


seem hard/ assented Mrs. Cheyne. ‘ But I daresay 
your poor father did not foresee the consequences. 
No doubt he meant well.’ 

4 All the same, we have to suffer, and we have done 
nothing to deserve it/ said Miriam hotly and bitterly. 
4 1 say it was a cruel shame. He ought to have had 
some consideration for us/ 

4 Oh, how can you say such things ? * cried Doris in 
a stifled, indignant voice, and coming back to the 
middle of the room. Every one looked at her in 
surprise. Her face was flushed, her hands trembling, 
her beautiful eyes flashing fire. 

4 You have no right to speak like that of papa, 
Miriam. I wonder you do not sink with shame even 
to think such things. Whatever we do, we dare not 
blame him. All he did was out of love for us. We 
can never have a friend who will be more to us, or 
love us as he did/ 

4 Beally, you are quite melodramatic, Doris/ said 
Miriam with a slight sneer, and returned to her 
contemplation of the fire. Doris had silenced her, 
for the time at least. 

4 Well, what would you suggest that we should do, 
Doris ? Have you an opinion ? 5 asked Mrs. Cheyne, 


40 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


languidly smoothing the crape on her dress. The 
others waited anxiously for Doris’s answer, it was so 
unusual for her to intrude her opinion, or to have 
anything to say on any subject. 

‘ Whatever we do, mamma, we must not cast any 
reflection on his memory,’ said Doris, in a sharp 
quivering voice, for she still smarted under the sting 
of Miriam’s uitter words. 4 Let us all cling together, 
and do the best we can, and love each other, as he 
would like us to do. If only we are in earnest, the 
way will be opened up, and we need not be badly off 
at all.’ 

‘ That’s right, Doris. I believe you have all the 
grit,’ cried Kitty in honest admiration. ‘ I believe 
you’ll put us all on the right track, after all.’ 

‘ Let us hear what you would have us do ? Of 
course you have some practical suggestion to make ? ’ 
said Miriam, looking round with cold inquiry on 
Doris’s face. 

But Doris had had her say, and immediately shrank 
into herself. Indignation at any aspersion cast on 
the memory of the father she had so passionately 
loved had roused her for the moment, and revealed 
something of that inner nature of which they knew 


WHAT IS TO BECOME OF US? 


4i 


nothing. She made no reply, but crept away out of 
the room, and oblivious of the chill November air, 
stole out into the gathering darkness of the night. 

When she was gone, the rest gathered themselves 
close about the hearth, and tried to face the reality 
of the misfortunes which had come so unexpectedly 
and ruthlessly upon them. But all their talk was to 
no practical end, and constantly reverted to the hard- 
ship of their position, and unavailing regrets over the 
happy past. 

Doris had not gone many steps across the park 
when Mr. Penfold, returning from his stroll, caught 
sight of her among the leafless trees. He followed 
her, and came upon her leaning with her arms on a 
stile which separated their grounds from the rugged 
slope of Nab Scar. 

‘ My dear/ he said very gently for him, * you will 

catch your death of cold ; let me wrap this round 

you/ He took his muffler from his own neck and 

put it about her head and shoulders, and as he looked 

into the pale, dark face, and saw the strange look in 

her eyes, he felt himself moved in no ordinary way. 

He had never paid much attention to the women of 

Robert Cheyne’s household. He knew them all by 
4 


42 


DORIS CHE YNE. 


name, but sometimes confused their individualities, 
and often felt glad that he had no such encumbrances 
and responsibilities. But just at that moment he 
wondered that he had never before been struck by 
Doris’s appearance. 

Doris shivered at his touch, but her look was 
grateful, and when she spoke her voice shook. 

‘ Uncle Penfold, I am very miserable/ 

‘ Yes, my dear, I know.’ He patted her arm as if 
she had been a little child, and the touch soothed 
her. ‘ I am very sorry for you all. It is a great 
trouble/ 

‘It is not that, Uncle Penfold. It is the way 
they speak about him,’ said Doris rebelliously. 
* When I hear them, and think of all he was to us 
— of his goodness and unselfishness — I cannot bear 
it ; I cannot, indeed/ 

‘ Try to be gentle with them, Doris. It is a great 
shock to them all. They are hardly responsible for 
anything they may say,’ said the lawyer soothingly. 

It was curious that he should speak to her as if 
she were not one of them, almost as if she were an 
outsider like himself. He honoured her for her 
loyalty to the memory of her father. 


WHAT IS TO BECOME OF US? 


43 


‘ You must not dwell on these little things, Doris, 
because you have a great deal before you. If I am 
not mistaken, you will have much to do with the 
future of your mother and sisters. Your father used 
sometimes to speak of his girls to me. Doris, I have 
heard him say that there were great possibilities in 
your nature. Perhaps, who knows, this may have 
come to help you to fulfil the purpose of your life/ 

Doris said nothing, but her eyes grew less troubled, 
a look of peace stole into her face. 

* I did not think of that, Uncle Penfold. Perhaps 
you are right/ 

‘It is a great thing to have a purpose in life, 
Doris. If it be a noble one, we are ennobled by it/ 
said the old man, and then he saw a light kindle in 
the girl’s eye. She turned to him, and with an 
impulsive movement laid her hand on his arm. 

' If I have a purpose in life, Uncle Penfold, I 
cannot be poor. Perhaps that is the legacy he left 
me/ 




CHAPTER III. 

AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 

* Auld Robin Gray.’ 

,, Emily, I have only to repeat what I 
lid last night. If I can be of any use 
> you, pray command me/ said Mr. 
Penfold next morning after breakfast. ‘Have you 
formed any plans V 

‘Hot yet, — we are so stunned by the suddenness 
of the shock, that we cannot all at once compose our 
minds to the consideration of practical details/ 

‘ There can be only one course open to us as gentle- 
women, Uncle Penfold/ said Miriam’s clear cool voice. 
‘ We must open a school somewhere, and starve upon 
the proceeds. Probably we shall come to London. 
We can at least hide our poverty there/ 

‘ I would not advise you, my dear. I would not 

44 



AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 45 

advise you/ said Mr. Penfold quickly. ‘ There is no 
room there. The market is overstocked, and with- 
out influence it is impossible to succeed. You would 
do better in a country town. Is there no opening 
in the neighbourhood V 

‘ We shall not seek it/ Miriam answered decisively. 
‘ Wherever we go, it must be where we are not known. 
Don’t you think we shall have enough to bear with- 
out the sympathizing contemptuous pity of those who 
were proud of our acquaintance ? No, thank you.' 

‘You are quite right, I think, Miriam/ Josephine 
acquiesced languidly. 

‘I don’t/ said Kitty honestly. ‘When people 
know our circumstances, we shall be saved answering 
uncomfortable questions. I think it would be a very 
good thing if we could get something to do where we 
are known/ 

* I shall be on the look-out/ said the lawyer kindly, 
‘ I suppose you will stay here for a few weeks at 
least. In the meantime I must go. Good-bye to 
you all. But where is Doris ?’ 

‘ I think she is dressing to walk part of the way 
with you, uncle/ said Eosie; and just then Doris 
appeared attired for her walk. 


46 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


This little attention pleased the old man, and he 
looked at the slight figure and the dark sad face 
with a very kindly eye. 

He bade them all good-bye, and followed Doris 
out of doors, almost with a feeling of relief. 

‘It is a fine morning, my dear,’ he said quite 
pleasantly. ‘ The air is so much clearer and fresher, 
and the mists are all gone from the hills/ 

‘ Yes, and the sun will strike on Nab Scar pre- 
sently, and make the lake like gold/ said Doris, 
with a slight smile. ‘ Uncle Penfold, I do not know 
how I shall ever feel at home away from these 
mountains/ 

‘We are creatures of habit, my dear/ said the 
lawyer cheerfully. ‘ The secret of contentment is 
work. When you begin to work in earnest, you will 
cease to fret for what you have lost, and you will 
come sometimes for a peep at your old haunts ; and 
though the familiar scenes will warm your heart, you 
will not be tormented by any longing for the old 
life. I am quite sure, Doris, that such will be your 
experience. You are what I call a woman above the 
average/ 

Doris smiled again, but slightly shook her head. 



RYDAL WATER AND NAB SCAR 




















* 










AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 


49 


‘ I have thought a great deal about what you said 
to me last night, Uncle Penfold, and now I see things 
so differently. I feel quite strong and brave for the 
future, and though I do not know in what way I 
shall be able to help, I am certain I shall know when 
the time comes. You are quite sure that if we are 
truly earnest in seeking our duty or life-work, it will 
be revealed to us V 

She spoke the last words with a touch of wistful- 
ness, and her fine eyes looked into his face with 
eager questioning. 

‘ My dear, I am quite sure of it/ he said, touched 
by that look. It was a new experience for this 
shrewd, silent, self-contained man to be called upon 
to consider the awakenings of a young soul. 

* But why do you say you do not know how you 
shall be able to help ? Are you not accomplished 
like your sisters V 

* Oh no. I cannot paint or sing or play upon 
the pianoforte. I do not even know how to make 
myself agreeable. I have always been a burden to 
myself and others. But I think papa knew, at least 
he loved ’ — 

Her voice shook, and a silence fell upon them, 
5 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


50 

which was unbroken till they had reached the high- 
way, and turned their faces towards Ambleside. 

‘ I’ll tell you what you can do, Doris/ said the 
lawyer at length. * You can be a tower of strength 
to them alL You can be courageous when they are 
down-hearted ; and I am sure you will be able to be 
useful in many other ways, which will be revealed 
to you when you are waiting and looking for 
them/ 

* Miriam and Josephine are highly accomplished, 
and so is Kitty, and I am sure the children would 
love her, she is so good-natured. If only we had an 
opening, I think they would be very successful/ 

‘ I am sure of it. There is another thing, Doris ; 
at first, of course, you will require to be economical. 
It might be your duty to turn your attention to 
housework, and so save the expense of a domestic.’ 

Doris shook her head. The prospect did not 
charm her. She had all a young girl’s ardent long- 
ings after the noble and grand in life. It takes a lot 
of soul-training to convince us of the heroism and 
beauty of * the daily round and common task/ Doris 
Cheyne had not reached that height. 

‘There is another thing J should like to speak 


AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 


5i 


about, Doris/ said the lawyer presently. ‘Do you 
think Eosamond would come and live with me V 
1 Live with you, Uncle Penfold V 
‘ Yes. It would make one less to be provided for. 
I am not a rich man, and I cannot offer her anything 
very fine. But she will have a quiet, comfortable 
home, and if she has any particular bent — why, I 
shall try to help her/ 

‘ You are very good, Uncle Penfold/ 

‘I don’t mind telling you I should rather have 
you. I seem to know you better than the rest, but 
I see you are needed, and I will not be selfish. Do 
you think the child will come V 

‘ I think so. I hope so. Eosamond is very good, 
uncle. She is not headstrong, as I am.’ 

‘ Well, we can see about that later, my dear. Now, 
I think you should not come any farther this morn- 
ing. I must hurry, I see, to catch the coach/ 

‘ I can hurry with you, uncle ; I have something 
to do for mamma in Ambleside/ 

They quickened pace together, and were soon in 
sight of the quiet little town. Doris waited till her 
uncle had taken his place in the coach, and bade him 
farewell with sincere regret. He had been a real 


52 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


help to her, he had shown her many possibilities, but 
Doris did not know what a rugged and painful path 
lay before her. She had often felt the emptiness of 
her life, she had chafed in the pleasant idleness of 
her home, she had longed for action, in a word, for a 
more purposeful life, instinct with worthy aims. It 
had come to her then quite suddenly, and now, 
instead of stagnation, there was so much to do, it 
was not easy to know how or where to begin. But 
her heart beat, her pulses thrilled, her whole being 
responded to the call. Doris Cheyne was ready for 
her lifework, anxious to take it up, and to go through 
with it nobly, when it should be revealed. She 
knew little of the world, nothing of the sorrows of 
life. She had yet to learn that the cross is before 
the crown, that no deep satisfaction or satisfying joy 
can be won except through pain. It remained to be 
seen how Doris would come out of the ordeal, what 
strength for the battle lay hid in her soul. She did 
not hurry back to the Swallows’ Nest that morning. 
The air was sweet and invigorating, the subdued 
glow of the winter sunlight, glinting on hill and dale, 
soothed her; she loved to stand by the parapet of 
the old bridge, and watch the lovely shadows in the 


AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 


53 


silent depths of the placid mere. When she began 
to ascend the hill to the Swallows’ Nest, she felt in 
a composed, hopeful mood. The future, though un- 
certain, possessed many charms for her. The still, 
monotonous, self-contained life was at an end, and 
some of the longings which had possessed her were 
about to be fulfilled. She should have a chance 
with others to make a place for herself in the world. 
These thoughts, bewildering in their novelty, had 
weaned her away for a little from what, only yester- 
day, had seemed an agony it was impossible for her 
to bear. Doris was not companionable nor demon- 
strative. To her sisters she was even cool. Her 
heart’s love had been concentrated on her father ; 
she had loved him in a blind, worshipping way, and 
I do not think realized yet what it would be to live 
without him. As she passed through the lodge gates, 
she saw a horseman approaching from the direction 
of the house. She recognised him as the Squire of 
Hardwicke Manor, and thought no more of him until 
he drew rein before her. She stopped then, some- 
what reluctantly, and gravely returned his effusive 
greeting. 

‘ It is a fine morning, Miss Doris,’ he said, beaming 


54 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


upon her very expressively, and retaining her hand 
between his fat palms, while the reins lay loosely on 
the chestnut’s glossy neck. 

‘Yes, Mr. Hardwicke,’ Doris answered, and im- 
patiently withdrew her hand. 

She wondered why the man should stop at all. 
She disliked him, and in some vague way associated 
him with their misfortunes. 

‘Yes, it is an uncommon fine morning, and you 
look blooming, Miss Doris. To think you should 
have been to Ambleside and back already ! You’re 
a sensible girl, and deserve to ride in your carriage, 
you do ; and so you will some day/ 

‘ I don’t think so, Mr. Hardwicke. I am afraid 
we are all further off from carriage-riding than we 
have ever been. It is a good thing we are all able 
to walk.’ 

‘ How, there’s a girl ! * exclaimed Mr. Hardwicke 
triumphantly, as if to convince some unbelieving 
third party of Doris’s excellences. ‘You’re game, 
Miss Doris ; you have a spirit equal to the occasion.’ 

Doris smiled. The man amused her, but she could 
not understand why he detained her with his talk. 
She was anxious to get indoors, to be present at the 


AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 


55 

family council, and to aid in shaping the future which 
was now of such importance to them all. 

4 Good morning, Mr. Hardwicke,’ she said, with a 
little nod, and turned to go. 

* You’re in a hurry, Miss Doris. Don’t grudge me 
a few seconds. You’re very hard-hearted,’ said the 
squire, looking quite pathetically into the girl’s per- 
plexed face. 

‘ Do you want anything, Mr. Hardwicke ? * she 
asked, ‘ because I am hurrying home now to mamma, 
and I am afraid I have rather put off my time.’ 

‘Want anything? Yes, rather,’ said Mr. Hard- 
wicke knowingly. * But there, I’ll let you go now. 
I hope to see you this afternoon again. Bun, then, 
and your mother will acquaint you with my hopes.’ 

Doris laughed, and with another nod walked off 
without ever looking round, though the squire kept 
the chestnut standing till she was out of sight. 

Bosamond was standing on the steps at the hall 
door, her face wearing an odd expression. 

‘ Did you meet him ? What did he say to you, 
Doris ? ’ she asked in an awe-stricken whisper. 

* He said it was a fine morning, and that I looked 
blooming ! ’ Doris answered, and laughed, not under- 


56 DORIS CHEYNE . 

standing or even marvelling at the child’s unusual 
questions. ‘ Where is mamma ? * 

‘In the drawing-room. The girls are there too. 
Are you going up, Doris ? ’ Eosamond asked, with the 
same puzzled expression on her face. 

‘ Of course I am. I got mamma’s quilling. I 
hope it is right. I don’t know anything about such 
things/ 

So saying, Doris ran up-stairs, and entered the 
drawing-room. The busy hum of talk instantly 
ceased, and she became conscious that they were all 
looking very intently at her. Her mother’s face was 
slightly flushed, and wore a pleased, animated ex- 
pression. 

* Come and kiss me, Doris. My child, a gleam of 
light has shone through the gloom. Your future, 
at least, is happily assured/ 

Doris looked mystified, but drew off her gloves, 
and, coming to her mother’s side, kissed her 
cheek. 

‘ I got your quilling, mother. They had no other 
kind/ she said, opening the small paper parcel she 
had in her hand. ‘It was two shillings for that 
piece. Is it right ? ’ 


AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE . 


57 

* Never mind it just now. Did you meet any one 
in the avenue, Doris ? * 

* Yes ; Mr. Hardwicke. Why do you ask, mamma?’ 

Miriam laughed, shrugged her shoulders, and 

turned away to the window. She was especially 
struck by Doris’s plain, unprepossessing appearance. 
Her walk had given her no colour, and the big hat, 
heavily trimmed with crape, seemed to add a darker 
tinge to her sallow face. 

* What did Mr. Hardwicke say to you, Doris ? 
Anything particular, my dear ? * asked Mrs. Cheyne, 
with a little coquettish gesture. 

‘ Nothing, mamma, except that it was a fine morn- 
ing. Why do you ask ? ’ asked Doris, not curiously, 
but with a certain slow surprise. 

* Did he make no reference to his errand here this 
morning ? * 

‘ No/ answered Doris reflectively. ‘ Oh, I re- 
member though, he told me you would acquaint me 
with his hopes. What did he mean ? Why should 
we speak about him at all ? Why should he come 
here ? We do not like him. He is not a true friend 
like Uncle Penfold.’ 

‘ Hush, Doris, you have no right to speak so dis- 


58 DORIS CHEYNE. 

paragingly about a gentleman of Mr. Hardwieke’s 
position and character/ said Mrs. Cheyne sharply. 
‘Not a true friend, indeed ! He has given me to- 
day the strongest proof of his friendship. I only 
hope you will be capable of appreciating it as I do/ 

Doris was very much surprised. She looked from 
Miriam to Josephine and back to her mother almost 
helplessly. Miriam’s face was still averted, Josephine’s 
wore a cold, amused smile. Kitty found it difficult 
to suppress a laugh. She always saw the comical 
side of things. 

‘ Perhaps we had better leave the room, mamma, 
while you acquaint Doris with Mr. Hardwicke’s hopes/ 
Miriam said presently. 

‘There is no necessity. There is nothing to be 
silly or affected about. Doris, Mr. Hardwicke came 
here this morning on a very unexpected errand. 
He has done you a great honour, the greatest in his 
power. He wishes to marry you.’ 

Miriam looked keenly at Doris to see the effect of 
the announcement. Doris had taken off her hat as 
her mother spoke, and now she put up her hand to 
her head, and a dull red flush rose to her cheek. 
But she never spoke. 


AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 59 

* Often when the cloud seems darkest we see the 
silver lining/ said Mrs. Cheyne, softly clasping and 
unclasping her little white hands, and speaking in a 
purring, satisfied way. * I must say, Doris, that the 
idea of such a splendid settlement for you never 
occurred to me. You have every reason to he proud 
and grateful/ 

4 Why should I be proud and grateful ? ’ 

Doris’s voice rang out sharp and shrill, and the 
colour rose still higher, till her brow was flushed. 

* Why ? because you will be so splendidly provided 
for. Your sisters may well envy you. To think 
that you should be the mistress-elect of Hardwicke 
Manor/ said Mrs. Cheyne, looking severely at Doris. 
4 1 hope, my dear, that you will show yourself pro- 
perly sensible of Mr. Hardwicke’s kindness, and that 
you will not add to my burden by your obstinacy or 
self-will/ 

Doris looked helplessly from one to another, but 
spoke no other word. She only half-comprehended 
the meaning of it all. Marriage had never been a 
theme engrossing to her thoughts ; marriage for her- 
self had never once presented itself to her mind. 

4 You look as if you don’t believe it, Doris/ said 


6o 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


Miriam. * I assure you it is quite true. Mr. Hard- 
wicke wants you for his wife, and if you take my 
advice, you will be glad to accept him. I should, if 
I had the chance/ 

* So should I, though he is not an Adonis/ said 
Josephine. ‘His possessions cover a multitude of 
shortcomings, and if you only scheme a little you 
will be able to wind him round your little finger. 
He is a fool* 

Doris took a few steps nearer her mother, and 
fixed her gleaming eyes on the pretty faded face. 
The shallow-hearted woman winced under that look. 

‘Mother!* Doris’s voice shook. ‘What does it 
mean ? Mr. Hardwicke wishes to marry me, and 
you wish me to marry him, is that it ? Please to 
tell me. I want to understand it quite clearly/ 

‘I thought I spoke plainly/ said Mrs. Cheyne 
resignedly. ‘ Mr. Hardwicke has done you that 
honour. He truly loves you, and would make you 
very happy; but if you are going to be headstrong 
and foolish over it, of course there is no more to be 
said about it. My wishes need not weigh with you. 
It is natural that I should have rejoiced at such a 
prospect, especially for you, for I must say, Doris, 


AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE . 61 

I don’t know what I am going to do with you ; hut 
I hope I can bear disappointment. I have had many 
to endure ; no doubt they are all for my good.’ 

Doris drew a quick sobbing breath, and walked 
away out of the room. Then Mrs. Cheyne sat up 
and looked at Miriam. 

‘What are we to do with her? Such a chance 
will never, I am sure, come in her way again. 
When she looks at me with those great staring eyes 
of hers, she frightens me. What is to be done ? If 
only Mr. Hardwicke had asked anybody but Doris !’ 

‘ You must just make up your mind, mother,’ said 
Miriam. * Doris will not become amenable to reason 
on this point. You may spare yourself the trouble 
of expatiating on the worldly advantages of such a 
marriage. She doesn’t understand it.’ 

* She will when she has to want a meal’ snapped 
Josephine crossly. * It is time she understood these 
things at twenty-two. I believe half of her unconsci- 
ousness is affectation. Papa spoiled her altogether.’ 

‘She didn’t say she wouldn’t have him, though,’ 
said Mrs. Cheyne reflectively. ‘Perhaps when she 
has got accustomed to the idea, she may think better 
of it. . Hardwicke Manor and three or four thousand 


62 


DORIS CHEYNE . 


a year are not to be picked up every day. It will 
be hard if we have to let it go. Why, Doris has our 
future in her own hands.’ 

4 1 think you go too far, mamma,’ said Miriam. 
‘ Unless I am much mistaken in Mr. Hardwicke, he 
would object to marrying the whole family. We 
should be kept at a respectful distance. I do not 
think he is conspicuously generous.’ 

* Then what is to be done ? Mr. Hardwicke will 
be here in a few hours. Am I to tell him Doris 
will have nothing to say to him ? ’ 

‘There is only one hope, mamma. If you can 
convince Doris that it would be her duty to marry 
Mr. Hardwicke, that it is what papa would wish her 
to do, she’ll do it, though it should kill her.’ 

' I hope you won’t try anything of the kind,’ cried 
Kitty’s fresh young voice. ‘ I wonder you can bear 
to think of such a thing. Doris marry him indeed ! 
It would be a shame. He is old enough to be her 
grandfather. Poor old Doris, I’ll be her champion, 
though you should all turn against me too.* 



CHAPTER IV. 

A DARK HOUR. 

* Peace ! be still.* 

RIS had received a cruel blow. The 
hopes of the morning were quenched at 
noon ; on the very threshold of her new 
resolve and bright purpose she was met by a great 
shadow. 

She was glad to creep up to her own little* 
room, and shut herself in. Doris had always been 
the odd one in the family, and no one shared her 
room. She sat down by the window where she 
had idled and dreamed away many precious hours. 
She could not dream over this trouble, however. 
It required instant consideration, stern practical 
thought. It was overpowering. Her cheek 
burned with the shame of it, her heart beat 

63 



64 DORIS CHEYNE . 

angrily, her hand unconsciously clenched. How 
heartless they were, how selfish, how careless and 
indifferent to her feelings ! 

It was a shock to Doris, who had never thought 
of marriage, to find it thrust upon her, a question 
demanding an immediate answer; and such a 
marriage ! The girl shivered as if some cold breath 
had touched her, and crouched in her corner like a 
hunted thing. She felt desolate, despairing almost, 
as if she were an outcast whom none pitied or loved. 
Could this be the cruel destiny she must fulfil, 
from which there could be no escape ? Must she 
stand before the altar with this man, who had 
nothing to recommend him, no attributes which could 
win even respect and esteem ? Was this the only 
way in which she could help them ? Could this be 
the path of duty for her, the purpose she must 
fulfil ? 

These thoughts rent her perplexed soul until she 
could have cried out in agony ; this was a crisis in 
the life of Doris Cheyne. In this mood her mother 
found her an hour later. She had peeped through 
the half-open door, and seeing the attitude of Doris, 
softly entered the room, and laid her hand gently on 


A DARK HOUR. 65 

the girl’s bowed head. Mrs. Cheyne could make her 
touch very gentle, her voice sweet and caressing, 
when she pleased. 

‘Doris, my dear, don’t fret. There is no one 
forcing you to marry Mr. Hardwicke. We do not 
want you to make a martyr of yourself.’ 

Doris lifted her head, and, looking at her mother’s 
face, said quietly, — 

‘ I don’t know what to do, mamma ; I am very 
miserable.’ 

‘ There is no need, Doris. As I said, we cannot 
compel you to marry any one. Besides, it is a thing 
I would not do. I love my children too well to 
sacrifice them. I will sit down beside you, Doris, 
and we shall talk this matter over quietly and 
sensibly ; shall we, dear ? ’ 

She sat down as she spoke, and gently patted 
Doris’s hand. 

The girl was grateful for that kind touch. Her 
eyes filled with tears. At that moment her heart 
went out in a rush of love to her mother. She no 
longer felt desolate and alone. But she could no't 
speak, feeling was pent in her heart; then Mrs. 
Cheyne began in a low, sweet voice : 


66 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


‘ It was injudicious and unkind of me, Doris, to 
break it to you so rashly, especially before your 
sisters. It would have been infinitely better had 
I come here quietly and talked it over with you. 
You will not blame me, dear, that in the midst of 
my sorrow and perplexity, my anxiety and care 
about my children, Mr. Hardwicke’s proposal should 
have seemed just at first a beautiful ray of light. 
He is an honest, generous-minded man, and he was 
your dear father’s trusted friend.’ 

‘ Oh, mamma, I think papa did not always trust 
him. I have heard him say he was not a true 
friend,’ cried Doris. 

* I think you are mistaken, my dear. You must 
be thinking of some one else,’ corrected Mrs. Cheyne, 
with gentle decision. ‘ I knew your poor dear father’s 
heart, and I assure you he had a warm esteem for our 
kind neighbour. But that can make no matter now. 
Doris, my love, do you quite understand our position ? 
Are you aware that we will be dependent on our 
own exertions, even for our daily bread ? ’ 

* Yes, mamma, I know ; but we can work. I 
will work ; yes, dear mamma, I will do all I can if 
only you will let me stay.’ 


A DARK HOUR, 67 

* I do not doubt your earnestness, Doris, but what 
can you do ? Can you sing or play, or do you know 
any languages, like your sisters ? I think it right to 
tell you that your future causes me many sleepless 
hours and anxious thoughts/ 

‘ It need not, mother ; there will, there must be 
something for me to do. I will not burden you. I 
will help you, indeed I will/ cried Doris, with 
heaving bosom and gleaming eye. 

‘ You talk in an excited strain. It sounds well, 
my love, but it is impracticable. What can you do ? 
Nobody will pay you anything for fine words/ 

* I will learn to work with my hands, mother. 
Uncle Penfold said it might be my duty to do so ; 
to do what a servant might. Mamma, nothing could 
make me happier/ 

‘ Your Uncle Penfold is a stupid old man/ said 
Mrs. Cheyne coldly. ‘We cannot forget that we 
are ladies, Doris. No child of mine shall ever 
degenerate into a domestic servant. I am afraid 
you are going to be the greatest trial of my life. If 
you can do nothing, you must not hinder those who 
can by your obstinacy and self-will/ 

‘ I will not, mother. I will try to be good and 


68 


DORIS CHEYNE . 


dutiful/ said Doris meekly, and her great eyes, like 
those of a timid fawn, uplifted themselves pleadingly 
to her mother’s face. 

Mrs. Cheyne’s heart was not touched by that 
look; she was engrossed by a desire to impress 
Doris in favour of marriage with the Squire of 
Hardwicke Manor. 

* When Mr. Hardwicke spoke of you in such high 
terms, Doris, I was very much surprised. You do 
not exert yourself to be agreeable, and I must say 
that I could not understand his choice. But he has 
chosen you, he loves you, and, my dear, his offer 
deserves kind consideration at your hands. I am 
not mercenary, and I hope none of my children are ; 
but when I think of that beautiful home, and picture 
you as its happy mistress, I cannot help wishing 
that you would think better of it/ 

‘ But, mamma, I should not be happy ; I should 
be miserable. How could I be a wife ? I know 
nothing ; besides, I have not even respect for Mr. 
Hardwicke. He makes me shrink into myself/ 

* Such absurd ideas are the fruit of an ill- 
regulated mind. Mr. Hardwicke is a most estimable 
man, and would make a generous and considerate 


A BARIC HOUR . 69 

husband. Perhaps he is not the young, handsome 
suitor who readily wins a girl’s foolish admiration, 
but he has the solid qualities of head and heart. 
His generosity quite touched me. He was good 
enough to say that the Manor would be my home, 
and that he would see that we all had comfort — all 
for your sake, Doris. Does not that show a dis- 
interested and sincere love? Many women who 
have married unwillingly have become the happiest 
of wives ; and those who have rashly married for 
love, have found it could not stand the test. There 
must be comfort, solid, worldly comfort, Doris, or 
love is soon starved out.’ 

Mrs. Cheyne again laid her hand softly on Doris’s 
arm, and smoothed it with a gentle, caressing touch. 
* You have all this in your power, Doris ; I may say, 
with truth, that my future rests with you. It is 
not a great deal to ask, after all. Mr. Hardwicke 
does not expect you to adore him ; he hopes to win 
your love with kindness. You will think it over, 
then, my dear child. Eemember, I do not wish you 
to sacrifice yourself, if you feel that it would be a 
sacrifice. Only think it over, and give it considera- 
tion. God bless you, my darling Doris.* 


70 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


So saying, Mrs. Cheyne pressed her lips to the 
girl’s forehead, and glided from the room. 

She had made the girl’s burden greater. Under 
the guise of motherly solicitude and tenderness, she 
had laid a stern duty upon her; she had left her 
without a loophole of escape. She intended to be 
kind, and imagined that she was doing her utmost 
to further the girl’s best interests as well as her 
own. Nevertheless each word went like a barbed 
arrow to the sensitive heart. Doris sank under 
it. She felt that she must accept the inevitable, 
that her destiny could not be set aside. 

It was a happy thing that Josiah Hardwicke was 
prevented returning to the Swallows’ Nest that 
afternoon. Had he done so, it is certain that Mrs. 
Cheyne would have promised him her daughter’s 
hand, and Doris would have acquiesced. She felt 
helpless, like some frail barque drifting upon a 
strong current, against which it were vain to strive. 
Often, when we become thus passive under a heavy 
strain, it is removed from us. It is not always 
the best thing to fight against circumstances; the 
difficulty is to decide when discretion is the better 
part of valour. But even that will be decided for 


A DARK HOUR. 


7i 


us if we ask in faith, nothing doubting. Doris did 
not go down -stairs that afternoon. Her mother 
respected her wish to he alone, it was not without 
its hopeful signs, and she forbade the others to 
disturb her, and sent one of the maids up with a 
cup of tea. Doris allowed it to stand till it was 
cold. I am not sure even that she was conscious of 
the woman’s entrance. She had never changed her 
position, except to clasp her hands round her knees ; 
and there she sat crouched up in the old corner, her 
eyes strained with watching the shadows of the 
night gathering about the hills. A low, moaning 
wind had crept up, and waved the bare tree boughs 
weirdly to and fro in the grey twilight ; a few rain- 
drops pattered against the panes. Meanwhile the 
lamps were lighted in the drawing-room, and the 
logs piled on the wide hearth, and the rest enjoyed 
the warmth and comfort, not forgetful of Doris, only 
leaving her alone in the silence she seemed to like 
best They did not hear her come softly down-stairs 
and steal out into the chill and biting night ; they did 
not dream of Doris speeding along the deserted high- 
way towards Grasmere to seek sympathy and comfort, 
and mayhap invisible help, beside a new-made grave. 


72 


DORIS CHEYNE . 


The evening service was just beginning when 
Doris stole through the open gate, past the 
lighted windows, and up to the dark corner where 
they had laid Robert Cheyne to rest. His grave 
was but a few yards from the resting-place of those 
who have made that churchyard immortal. Many a 
time had Doris read these names ; she had heard 
her father say he should like to lie not far from 
Wordsworth’s grave, and they had remembered his 
wish. She thought of it as she sped past the railed 
enclosure, before which the stones are worn by the 
feet of many pilgrims, as are the stones before a 
shrine. Presently she came to the mound, easily 
distinguishable by the beaten sod, still bearing the 
impress of the sexton’s spade. Down there Doris 
knelt, and folding her hands before her face, tried to 
pray. Hitherto, religion had not been a very real 
thing to Doris, perhaps she had not felt the need of 
it. But now it had come to this — that she was like 
one stumbling blindly upon an unbeaten way, lost 
and helpless without a guide. But she could not 
compose her thoughts, she could not think of any 
words; even the familiar prayers she had known 
and repeated daily since her childhood, seemed to 


GRASMERE CHURCHYARD. 



7 


73 





A DARK HOUR. 


75 


have slipped wholly from her mind. Only her 
whole being seemed possessed by a vast yearning, 
her soul was uplifted to the Unseen, and that is 
prayer. Insensibly as she knelt there, unconscious 
of any definable thought or desire, peace came to 
her, a strange and exquisite calm settled on her 
troubled heart. She felt lifted above her care, she 
knew her burden had grown light. Although she 
did not know it, she had laid it at the feet of Him 
who bids us cast our care upon Him, because He 
careth for us. It is a wondrous love which thus 
receives even the feeblest yearnings of a human 
soul, which makes no difference, even though we 
seek it only as a last extremity. 

While Doris knelt, the short evening service 
ended, and the few worshippers began to disperse. 
The sound of their voices roused her. and she stood 
up, and leaned her arm on the rail of the adjoining 
enclosure. She would wait there, she thought, until 
they were all gone, when she could steal away 
unobserved. She could see by the light from the 
church windows the dark figures moving towards 
the gate, but was presently startled by the 
sound of footsteps approaching the corner where 


76 DORIS CHEYNE. 

she stood. It was a man’s step, and in a moment 
she saw and recognised the figure. It was Gabriel 
Windridge, the surgeon, come to look for the second 
time that day at the grave of his friend, Kobert 
Cheyne, 




CHAPTER V. 

GABRIEL WINDRIDGE. 

* There was something of the sea about him, 

Something open, generous, and strong.’ 

DORIS, why are you here so late? 
ave you been at the service ? * 

* Ho ; I came a little while ago. I 
am going home now/ she answered in a grave, quiet, 
still voice. * Have you been in the church ? * 

‘Ho. I was passing, and came in before they 
shut the gates. I cannot realize that he is lying 
here, Miss Doris/ returned Gabriel Windridge gently^ 
‘ Come, we must go now/ 

Doris turned with him at once. The kind tones 
of his voice soothed her. She felt towards him as 
she might have felt towards a brother. 

* How did you come ? Are they waiting to drive 
you home ? ’ 



77 



78 


BORIS CHEYNE. 


‘ No ; I walked down. No one knows where I am. 
I will go home now. Good-night, Dr. Windridge/ 

‘ Not yet. You will let me drive you. I can get 
a fly in a few minutes/ 

‘ No ; I shall walk. Good-night, Dr. Windridge/ 
Doris repeated, and offered him her hand. 

He took it, and drew it through his arm. 

‘ Then I must take you home. Hush ! not a 
word. Do you think I could let his daughter walk 
that long darksome road alone, and on such a night ? 1 

Doris felt her eyes fill. His voice and manner 
were indescribably gentle and kind ; she felt at home 
and even happy in his care. It reminded her of 
what had been hers. Robert Cheyne had always 
been very gentle with his shy, proud, reticent girl, 
who none but himself understood. Gabriel Wind- 
ridge remembering it, did not marvel that she should 
be stunned by the shock of his sudden death. 

* It is hard to think we shall see him no more 
here, Miss Doris. I understand and sympathize with 
you. I loved him too/ he said. 

‘ Do you think you shall see him again anywhere, 
Dr. Windridge ? * Doris asked abruptly. 

‘ I hope and believe it, if I so live, that I may 


GABRIEL WINDRIDGE . 


79 


join him where he now is/ answered the surgeon 
reverently. 

‘People talk a great deal about meeting those 
they have lost. To me it is only talk. How can we 
know or be certain ? The only thing we do know is 
that they have left us, and that we cannot see or 
follow them/ Doris said bitterly. 

‘ I understand how you feel. I have gone through 
it all. I buried my mother twelve months ago, and 
she was the last/ 

‘ Have you no relatives left ? * 

‘Hot one/ 

‘ I envy you. Belatives are not always a blessing 
Sometimes they hinder any good we might do. 
Often they make the path of duty so hard, that it is 
impossible we can follow it.’ 

The surgeon was silent, wondering what she could 
mean. That she spoke of herself, he knew by the 
bitterness of her tone. He pitied her very much. 
Life would be hard for her now, as those find it who 
cannot walk the beaten track. Doris would seek to 
carve a way for herself — no easy task. 

They were silent as they walked quickly along the^ 
sheltered road skirting the edge of Grasmere Lake. 


8o 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


They could not see it, for the darkness was intense ; 
only those familiar with the way could have walked 
with confidence. 

* Miss Doris, in a few weeks you will see things 
differently. The keen edge will wear away from 
your sorrow, and ’ — 

‘ I do not wish it to wear off/ interrupted Doris 
quickly. ‘ Do you think it would be happiness for 
me to forget him, or to think less regretfully of the 
past when he was with me ? When I hear people 
say time will heal, and other dreary platitudes, I can 
scarcely be still. To me it is cruel, hard, ungrateful. 
Why should we make it the aim of our lives to forget 
those we have laid in the grave ? It is a poor return 
for their love, if they loved us/ 

Gabriel Windridge did not know what to say. 
The girl’s soul was writhing with pain ; her whole 
being was stirred. But his silence was sympathetic, 
as is the silence of some, and it comforted Doris not 
a little. It was a relief to her to speak, although 
she was not aware of it ; her need of human 
sympathy had become so great that she could no 
longer do without it. And Gabriel Windridge had 
been her father’s friend. 


GABRIEL WINDRIDGE. 81 

* Miss Doris/ he said, and his voice was very 
gentle and true, * I wish I could help you. My 
heart is sore for you/ 

‘ You do help me ; you loved him/ cried Doris 
impulsively. - ‘ Dr. Windridge, will you tell me 
what is the right thing for me to do ? * 

She was moved to give him her entire con- 
fidence; she could not fight the battle alone; 
she was not strong nor brave enough yet to decide 
for herself in this crisis. Perhaps her choice of 
a confidant was a strange one, but Doris had no 
friends. Till now she had never felt the need 
for any. 

And her father had loved Gabriel Windridge. 
She had heard him say that, had God given him a 
son, he could have wished him to be like Gabriel 
Windridge. These things Doris Cheyne treasured in 
her heart, and because of them Gabriel Windridge 
would henceforth be singled out from the world as 
one deserving of confidence and esteem. 

‘ I have a decision to make before to-morrow, Dr. 
Windridge. They tell me my duty is clear, but I 
cannot see it yet. My mother says I need not 
sacrifice myself, but the very tone of her voice tells 


82 DORIS CHE YNE. 

me that such a sacrifice would be only a filial duty 
to her. I am very wretched/ 

‘ Miss Doris, what is it ? Try and think of me as 
a brother. I may be your brother some day/ said 
the surgeon, with a passing thought of Miriam, whom 
he loved. 

Doris, engrossed by her own perplexities, did not 
notice his words. 

‘I will tell you. They wish me to marry Mr. 
Hardwicke.’ 

‘God forbid!’ 

Gabriel Windridge’s protest was very genuine. He 
was inexpressibly surprised and shocked. 

‘ It is true. He has asked mamma, though I do 
not know why he should wish to marry me. What 
shall I do ? ’ 

For a moment Gabriel Windridge was silent, 
picturing to himself what such a marriage would be 
like. A coarse, worldly-minded old man mated with 
a pure, inexperienced young girl, whose soul was 
sensitive to a degree, shrinking at every ungentle 
touch. 

‘ God forbid ! ’ he repeated in his inmost soul. 

‘You know that we are left very poor, Dr. 


GABRIEL W 1 NDRIDGE. 83 

Wirdridge/ continued Doris in a low voice. ‘ Mr. 
Hardwicke will provide for mamma and help the 
others if I become his wife. What shall I do ? * 

‘ What do you wish to do ? ’ 

* I know that I would die almost rather than marry 
Mr. Hardwicke/ said Doris. * But as I cannot die, I 
have to decide what my duty in life is. They say it 
is a splendid chance for me. Do you think I ought 
to let it go ? ’ 

It was pathetic to listen to the calm, matter-of-fact 
words which fell from the girl’s lips. In the dark- 
ness the surgeon’s face wore a look of deep com- 
passion. He was inexpressibly touched, and his 
idea of her duty on this question was clearly defined. 

‘If you feel as you say, Miss Doris, I do not 
think you need trouble any further about it/ he said 
in his quiet, decided way. ‘ To make such a sacrifice 
would be a mistaken idea of duty, and a great wrong. 
It is a sin to marry without, at least, the basis of 
respect and esteem/ 

‘I have never thought about these things until 
to-day, but I know you are right/ cried Doris. ‘ Do 
you think papa would have liked me to become Mr. 
Hardwicke’s wife ? ’ 


8 4 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


‘ Most assuredly not/ said Gabriel Windridge, with 
unmistakable warmth. * You were very dear to him, 
Miss Doris/ 

‘ You do not think it very strange that I should 
speak to you as I have done/ said Doris, as they 
began slowly to ascend the slope to the Swallows’ 
Nest. ‘ I could not help it. I was very lonely. I have 
no one to whom I can speak, now that he is away.’ 

‘You have honoured me with your confidence, 
which shall be sacred to me/ returned the surgeon 
sincerely. ‘I am afraid I have not been able to 
help you very much.’ 

‘ You have helped me. My mind is made up. I 
shall not marry Mr. Hardwicke. To do so would be 
a great wrong to him. It cannot be right to marry for 
money or for a home. Had I done so, it would have 
been for others, not for myself. Perhaps I shall be 
aided in finding something to do. Do you think any 
life is intended to be useless or purposeless ? * 

‘ I do not. The Creator has a purpose in all He 
creates/ returned Gabriel Windridge. ‘Miss Doris, 
life is only beginning for you. You will probe into 
the heart of things. You are so earnest. I feel sure 
you will do a great work.’ 


GABRIEL WINDRIDGE. 85 

A beautiful smile touched for a moment the girl’s 
pale, anxious face, and her eyes shone with a stedfast 
resolve. They had paused at the entrance gates, 
and the light from the cottage window fell upon 
them both. Gabriel Windridge looked at Doris with 
great interest. She had revealed herself to him ; he 
saw in her the making of a noble woman. He was 
himself an earnest soul, seeking to do his life-work 
as it was revealed to him, often erring, and pursuing 
petty aims perhaps, but his heart was true, and his 
purpose pure and high. Doris had made no mistake 
in her choice of a friend. Her trust had been 
unerring. Shall I tell you what strange thought 
flashed across her as she looked into the surgeon’s 
manly face ? She thought, that had Mr. Hardwicke 
been such as Gabriel Windridge, her perplexities had 
been easier ended. Life with him would be a good 
and pleasant thing, because he was worthy of respect 
and esteem. Such a thought brought no blush to 
the cheek of Doris, her unconsciousness was perfect, 
she knew nothing about love. 

* Thank you very much,’ she said simply. ‘ Will 
you come home with me ? It cannot be very late . 1 

‘Ho, thank you, it is time I was back. There 


86 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


may be a summons for me, and Dr. Prescott does not 
care to go out at night. You are not afraid to go 
up the approach alone ? ’ 

Doris smiled. 

* I am not afraid anywhere. Why should I be ? 
Good-night. Shall I see you again soon ? ’ 

‘Very soon. Good-night, Miss Doris. It is an 
unspeakable satisfaction to me if I have been of 
the slightest use to you. We are sometimes very 
dependent on sympathy/ 

‘I think we must be. I did not know until 
to-day/ Doris answered, and still lingered as if loth 
to go. She was thinking of those in the house ; 
picturing her mother’s expression when she should 
hear the final decision. 

‘ I am selfish, keeping you from those who may 
need you/ she said at length. Then they shook 
hands and parted. 

If Doris had received the benefit of help and 
sympathy from Gabriel Windridge, she had awakened 
in him a new vein of thought. She had roused his 
interest not only in herself, but in some of the 
problems of life. Of late he had given himself up 
wholly to his passionate admiration and love for 


GABRIEL WINDRIDGE. 


87 


Miriam Cheyne ; he had thought of her unceasingly 
by day, and dreamed of her by night. A great writer 
has said that an absorbing love is a purifying and 
ennobling influence, but it seems to me that it 
depends for these attributes upon its object. If we 
fix our hearts upon what is shallow and intrinsically 
worthless, our natures must suffer deterioration. So 
was it with Gabriel Windridge. Miriam Cheyne 
was a beautiful woman, but her mind was the home 
of selfish, frivolous, ambitious aims. She measured 
a man not by his moral worth, but by the magnitude 
of his possessions, by his worldly status. In her 
eyes there could be no virtue in poverty ; it was a 
crime. Had she been a legislator, she would have 
supported rigorous measures for the suppression of 
pauperism. She could forgive anything in a man 
but shabby clothes and empty pockets. 

She was also avaricious. She liked to save money, 
perhaps because its possession meant power. It 
must not be supposed, however, that she intruded 
these opinions, or suffered them to make her disagree- 
able in her intercourse with others. On the contrary, 
she had the reputation of being charming and 
amiable as well as beautiful. Her manner was 


88 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


perfect in its graciousness ; her voice was always 
sweet; she could even be humble when she saw 
occasion, though at heart she had the pride of a 
queen. But she was one of those women whose 
smiles are seldom seen at home. She was feared 
rather than loved by her sisters; even her mother 
stood in awe of her. 

Perhaps Doris was less timid than the rest, and 
the time had now come when two strong wills would 
clash. Hitherto Doris, her father’s close companion, 
had lived very much outside of her sisters’ lives. 

Gabriel Windridge thought more of Doris than of 
Miriam as he walked through the rain to Grasmere. 
He was surprised to hear of Hardwicke’s proposal. 
Doris was not a woman to attract by her beauty. 
He wondered what such a man saw to make her 
desirable as a wife. She was not only plain, but 
^ inexperienced. In some things she thought as a 
school-girl, in others as a woman of deep knowledge 
and wide sympathy. The surgeon felt that she was 
not an ordinary woman ; she interested him in spite 
of himself. He could not help looking ahead, and 
trying to picture her future. Her confidence in him 
touched him ; it also flattered him, though he was 


GABRIEL WINDRIDGE . 89 

not a vain man. We like to be trusted ; it makes 
us feel satisfied with ourselves ; if confidence be- 
stowed makes us strive to be more worthy of it, then 
it has fulfilled its chief end. 

Windridge was still thinking of Doris, puzzling 
himself over the course she would be likely to 
pursue, when he found himself at the gate of Dr. 
Prescott’s house. He entered by the surgery door, 
and there being no message for him, he took off his 
boots and went to the dining-room. Windridge’s 
position in Grasmere was not altogether pleasant. 
For attendance upon the majority of the old man’s 
patients he received the sum of sixty pounds a year, 
with board in the house. He never complained 
but he did not feel at home in the house. Dr 
Prescott was a bachelor, and his servants, who had 
grown grey in his service, regarded the assistant as 
one of themselves. They accorded him scant enough 
courtesy, and any extra attention he required was 
grudgingly bestowed. The master was to blame for 
that. He kept his assistant at arm’s-length ; he gave 
him a seat at his board and by his hearth, but 
showed him the gulf between them. The servants 
took their cue from him. Windridge had been with 


90 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


him for two years, and during that time had borne 
himself as a gentleman should. Dr. Prescott was a 
hard man, and also of a jealous, narrow mind. He 
knew his assistant to be a man of judgment and skill 
in his profession, and he saw him winning golden 
opinions on every hand. That he could not forgive. 
He had all the vanity of age, which, when meanly 
displayed, is more pitiable and saddening than the 
vanity of youth. We smile at young confident 
conceits, knowing years will bring a clearer vision. 
But there is no hope for a vain, self-glorified old age. 
Dr. Prescott was now in his seventieth year. He 
had been a fine-looking man in his day, but his tall 
figure was now bent, his face drawn and wrinkled, 
his hair as white as snow. He sat by the fire in a 
large easy-chair, attired in a handsome dressing-gown, 
and wearing a small black velvet cap. His slippered 
feet rested on the bar of the fender, and his long 
thin white hands were clasped on his knees. When 
the dining-room door opened, he turned his head and 
flashed his keen deep-set eyes on the assistant’s face. 

‘It is you, Windridge. I was wondering what 
had come over you. Is your work done ? * 

‘ It is, sir, in the meantime/ 


GABRIEL WINDRIDGE. 


9i 


* Then come over to the fire. It is wet, I 
believe.’ 

‘Very wet now, and cold as well,’ Windridge 
answered, and sat down at a respectful distance 
from the fire. 

The room was cold, the smouldering lump of coal 
in the grate diffusing but little heat. Strict economy 
was the rule in the Doctor’s household; he even 
denied himself the comforts of life, yet they said he 
had amassed a fortune in Grasmere. 

‘ Where have you been ? ’ he asked calmly, fixing 
his eyes on the young man’s face. 

Windridge reddened a little. The cross-question- 
ing to which he was frequently subjected, irritated 
him ; he was often tempted to make an unbecoming 
reply. The old man could not have kept a more 
vigilant supervision over him had he been a refractory 
school-boy. 

* I was enjoying a stroll, sir/ he answered quietly. 

* What ? In the rain ! were you alone ? * 

‘No, I was not.’ 

* Who was your companion ? * 

Windridge lifted a newspaper from the rack, and 
opened it out. 


9 2 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


4 1 see they are still debating the Land Question/ 
he said, with admirable coolness. 

A grim, dry smile dawned on Dr. Prescott’s face. 
He liked to annoy his high-spirited assistant, he 
enjoyed seeing his cheek flush and his eye gleam 
indignantly. It was a cheap amusement, for he knew 
Windridge had too much common sense to quarrel 
with what was practically his bread and butter. A 
poor man with uncertain prospects cannot afford to 
pander to his pride. He has to cultivate a meek 
spirit, unless he wishes deliberately to stand in his 
own light. Windridge was not meek, but he bore a 
great deal from the old Doctor because he pitied him 
He was a man who was miserable in spite of his 
position and his means. 

4 I have had a caller since you went out/ the old 
man said presently. 4 Hardwicke has been here.’ 

Windridge started. The man was in his thoughts 
at the moment. 

r Indeed/ was all he said. 

4 He came to consult me professionally, and we 
had some talk. Do you know what he told me ? — 
that you are in love with one of those girls at Bydal 
— Cheyne, Miriam Cheyne, I think he called her. I 


GABRIEL WINDRIDGE. 


93 


laughed at him, and said I didn’t think you were 
such a fool.’ 

Windridge reddened again, and threw down the 
paper. 

‘ What right has Hardwicke or any other man to 
come here gossiping about me?' he exclaimed hotly. 
‘ Next time I see him I’ll tell him to mind his own 
business.’ 

* No, you won’t,’ chuckled the old Doctor. * It’s 
true, I see. You are a fool, Windridge ! What can 
you marry on ? ’ 

‘ Time enough to ask me that, sir, when I intend 
marriage — that is, if it is your business,’ retorted the 
young man, still angrily. 

‘They’ve lost all their money, too, it seems. I 
hope you’ve not committed yourself. It isn’t easy 
crying off from a woman. She is generally so wide- 
awake to her own interests.’ 

Windridge was silent, being too indignant to 
speak. 

‘ Hardwicke seems to take a profound interest in 
these people. I shouldn’t be a bit astonished now, 
though the mother should marry him one of these 
days. Where are you off to ? ’ 


94 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


1 That is the surgery bell, sir. Good-night/ 

‘ Are you not coming back ? Let me know who 
wants you/ said the old Doctor, who liked to know 
all that was going on. 

4 All right, sir/ answered Windridge, not very 
courteously, and hurried out of the room. It was 
nothing new for him to be tried past his endurance. 
But for Miriam, he would have thrown common sense 
to the winds and thrown up his post, though he 
knew that if he could only have patience, he would 
slip into the old man’s fine practice. 

Dr. Prescott liked to annoy Windridge, but at 
the same time he felt as kindly towards him as it 
was in his nature to feel towards any human being 
other than himself. 




CHAPTER YI. 

SISTERS. 

* Out of her perplexities arose a self-reliant spirit, which would he a 
blessing to herself and others.’ 

S Doris stole into the house that night, the 
hall clock struck nine. It was very 
late for her to be out alone. She almost 
feared to enter the drawing-room. When she did so 
after removing her wet cloak and boots, she found 
only Miriam, Josephine, and Kitty there. They 
made room for her beside the fire, without asking 
where she had been. They thought she had just 
come down from her own room. Doris was quite 
conscious of their curious and interested glances. 
Eor the first time in her life, she was a person of 
importance in the house. The offer of marriage 
which had been made to her that day had altogether 

95 



96 DORIS CHEYNE. 

% 

changed her position. She had a great deal in her 
power. 

* Has mamma gone to bed ? ’ she asked, sitting 
down beside Kitty, and smiling slightly at the look 
of sympathy in her good - natured face. Kitty 
thought Doris’s fate was sealed, she didn’t see how 
it would be possible for her to combat the combined 
wills of their mother and Miriam. Hot an hour 
ago she had heard them make every arrangement 
for the future, just as if Doris’s engagement to Mr. 
Hardwicke had become a fact. She pitied Doris 
with a genuine sisterly pity. To marry Mr. Hard- 
wicke seemed to Kitty a living death. She thought 
it wrong to sacrifice Doris, but had been warned to 
hold her peace. Under pain of her mother’s stern 
displeasure, she had agreed to say nothing to influence 
Doris either way. 

‘ You have quite a colour, Doris/ Miriam said. 

‘ Mamma was anxious about you. I think I never 
saw you look better.’ 

‘ I am quite well/ Doris answered. * Have you 
been talking much about what we are going to 
do?’ 

‘ We have been talking, of course/ said Miriam ; 


S/ST£fiS. 


97 


'but we cannot make any definite arrangements 
until you settle the question for us/ 

As she spoke, Miriam’s beautiful eyes were fixed 
with evident keenness on her sister’s face. Doris 
met that look with one of calmness and resolve. 

‘ I have settled it. I am very much obliged to 
Mr. Hardwicke. I suppose I ought to be, but I 
cannot marry him/ 

Miriam and J osephine looked at each other ; 
Kitty’s eyes filled with pleased surprise, and she 
secretly pressed Doris’s hand. Kitty Cheyne had no 
great gifts, but she was an honest, true-hearted girl, 
who would develop into a womanly woman. The 
Hardwicke alliance had not commended itself to her. 

‘ I think you must be mad, Doris, to refuse such 
a chance/ said Miriam, with the haste of annoyance. 
* What is to become of you ? * 

'I don’t know. I shall neither starve nor be a 
burden upon any of you, but I shall not marry Mr. 
Hardwicke/ Doris said quietly. The sisterly hand 
clasping hers gave her a new sweet courage, and 
she looked gratefully into Kitty’s honest brown 
eyes. 

* Why will you not marry him ? * asked Miriam, 
9 


98 DORIS CBEYNE. 

leaning forward in her chair. * Look what he can 
give you ; a position any woman might envy.’ 

‘ Yes, but look at the man/ 

Doris spoke quietly, but her sarcasm was intensely 
bitter. Kitty could not repress a laugh, Miriam 
looked put out. 

* What is the matter with him ? He is older than 
you, and not very handsome, perhaps, but he would 
make a good enough husband. It is impossible you 
can entertain any romantic ideas about love and 
marriage. Take care what you are doing, Doris. 
You are plain, unaccomplished, not particularly 
attractive. You cannot afford to throw Mr. Hard- 
wicke away/ 

Doris laughed. Her heart was growing lighter. 
The strain was removed, she saw her duty, she felt 
brave to go forward against all opposition. In a 
moment, however, her*face grew grave again, she 
fixed her large dark eyes solemnly on Miriam’s 
beautiful face. 

* I have thought it all over. I have looked at it 
from every side, and I have been helped to make my 
decision. I do not deny the truth of what you say 
Miriam, were I to marry Mr. Hardwicke, feeling as 


SISTERS. 


99 


I do now, and for the motives which you urge, no 
punishment could he too great for me. I shall never 
do so great a wrong/ 

4 Fine talk/ said Miriam contemptuously. ‘ But 
selfish, very selfish. Think of the comforts you could 
give mamma. But there ! girls, it’s no use repining • 
we had better renew our contemplation of the various 
industries open to indigent females. Our castle of 
cards has fallen to the ground/ 

‘ I think you are quite right, Doris/ said Kitty 
stoutly ; ‘ anything would be better than marrying 
a man like Mr. Hardwicke. Ugh, the very idea of. 
it makes one shiver/ 

‘ Suppose we go away to some town and open a 
school ; what will you do, Doris ? ’ asked Miriam in her 
sweet, cold voice. ‘ You cannot expect us to keep you/ 

* For shame, Miriam,’ cried Kitty ; but Miriam 
waved her to be silent. 

‘ This is not a time to indulge in sentimental 
nonsense. We have to look at things in a practical 
fashion. You know, Doris, that you could not assist 
us to teach. Then what can you do ? It will be 
struggle enough in all likelihood to support those 
who are working ; then there is mamma/ 


lOO 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


‘Hardwicke Manor is your destiny, Doris/ said 
Josephine indolently. ‘ Far better accept it gracefully ; 
I only wish it had come in my way/ 

Doris made no reply. She was hurt by her sisters’ 
tone, by their evident desire to be rid of her. She 
felt more than ever isolated ; there seemed to be no 
place for her on the face of the earth. Kitty read 
her downcast expression, and spoke from the depths 
of her affectionate heart. 

‘ Look here, girls, what’s the use of going on at 
Doris ? If she won’t marry, she won’t, and there’s 
an end on’t. And as to saying there is nothing for 
her to do with us, that’s all nonsense. Whatever 
we do, we must stick together. Hone of us knows 
what we can do until we are put to it.’ 

Miriam was silenced, but gave her shoulders an 
expressive shrug. Her motives for wishing Doris to 
marry were selfish, like her mother’s ; it might be 
a very good thing to have a sister mistress of 
Hardwicke Manor. 

‘ Uncle Penfold has offered to take Rosamond , 1 said 
Doris slowly. ‘ And if you open a school, it will take 
you all to teach. There is one thing I could do, 
Miriam — I could save the expense of a servant.’ 


SIS TEAS. 


IOT 


‘You!’ 

‘Yes, I am strong enough, and though I don’t 
know much, I can go into the kitchen while we are 
here and learn what to do/ 

Miriam laughed. The idea was too absurd. 

‘ I am off to bed/ she said, rising with a yawn. 
‘ There will be weeping and wailing to-morrow when 
our neighbour learns his fate. May I be there to 
see. It is a shame of you, Doris, to nip his young 
affections in the bud/ 

‘ No worse than the way you treat Gabriel 
Windridge/ said Kitty daringly ; ‘ I don’t know how 
you can be so horrid to him. I’m nearly in love 
with him myself/ 

Miriam drew herself up. She was taken unawares, 
and the hot colour swept over neck and cheek 
and brow. 

‘ Don’t presume, child/ she said in her haughtiest 
manner, and swept out of the room. Josephine 
followed her almost immediately. 

Kitty slid down on the hearthrug, and leaning 
her folded arms on Doris’s knee, looked up wonder- 
ingly into her face. 

‘Doris, I believe you are a trump. Shall we 


102 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


stick together, and be chums through thick and 
thin ? * 

Kitty had a fondness for boyish words and phrases; 
she was full of life, too, and loved a frolic as dearly 
as any school-boy. Doris answered by a quick 
sobbing breath, and bending down, rested her hot 
cheek on Kitty’s tangled curls. That moment was 
very sweet to both. Somehow they had never seemed 
to know each other until then. 

£ Kitty, I think this trouble has come to us to 
rouse us np out of our sinful idleness, to show us 
the reality of life ; don’t you think so ? * 

‘ Perhaps ; but I don’t think we were very 
sinful,’ said Kitty doubtfully. ‘ Our lives were very 
simple and harmless, I am sure/ 

‘ Yes ; but we did not know or care anything 
about others. It was a selfish ease, Kitty/ said 
Doris, with a kindling eye. ‘ Don’t you think that 
after a time we must have become very narrow and 
miserable ? We had nothing to draw out our 
sympathies or good impulses. We have our lives 
in our hands now, Kitty ; we may make them very 
noble if we try.’ 

‘ Teaching other people’s children, and you scrubbing 


S/ST££S. 


103 


and cooking, eh ? ’ asked Kitty, with a grimace. 
‘ Doris, I do think you are a funny girl. You look 
as if you positively expected to enjoy being poor/ 

* I cannot help thinking it will be a splendid 
thing to overcome obstacles, Kitty ; to make the 
most of every opportunity ; to set up a high ideal, 
and strive to attain it/ said Doris, laying bare some 
of the secret yearnings of her soul. 

Kitty looked mystified. She did not in the least 
understand Doris. She was intensely practical, and 
keenly alive to the homely details of existence. A 
new gown was a very important matter to Kitty 
Cheyne. 

‘I don’t understand you, Doris/ she said simply. 
‘I wonder if you are going to be very clever. 
Perhaps you will outshine us all yet. Isn’t it odd ? 
I feel as if I knew ever so little about you, though 
you are my sister. You were always so much 
with papa/ 

Doris was silent, looking stedfastly into the dying 
fire. Her mind was a strange chaos, where many con- 
flicting feelings wrestled with each other. She stood 
on the threshold of life, she had awakened suddenly 
to its reality and responsibility, she^had already 


io4 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


made one of the most important decisions in a 
woman’s existence. She was no longer a girl, but a 
woman, with a work before her. What would it be ? 
As yet it was not very clearly defined. In com- 
parison with her, Kitty was to be envied. Her chief 
concern was her food and raiment ; these assured, 
she could be indifferent to all else. The needs of 
the body are more easily satisfied than the needs of 
the soul. 

Doris did not sleep much in the early part of the 
night, but towards morning she fell into a heavy, 
dreamless slumber, from which she was awakened by 
some one at her bedside. She started up. It was 
her mother with a small breakfast tray in her hands. 
She set it down, and, bending over Doris, kissed her 
affectionately. 

‘ Lazy girl ! do you kno »v it is half-past nine ? * she 
said, in her most pleasant manner. ‘ Come, sit up. 
Put this dressing-jacket on, and take your breakfast.* 

‘ Why should I have it in bed, mother ? I am quite 
well. I am ashamed of myself for having overslept. 
You should have awakened me.* 

* I looked in before we sat down to breakfast, and 
you were sleeping so soundly I thought it a pity to 


SISTERS. 


io 5 

rouse you. Come, let me see you comfortable, and 
we shall have a cosy chat/ said Mrs. Cheyne, placing 
the tray before Doris, and sitting down on the front 
of the bed. 

Doris wondered if her mother would be so sweet 
and kind if she knew her decision regarding Mr. 
Hardwicke. She felt secretly apprehensive, but not 
in the least shaken in her resolve. 

* So you have quite decided to have nothing to say 
to the squire at present/ said Mrs. Cheyne presently. 
* Miriam came to me last night and told me so. My 
dear, I am quite pleased. I regret, of course, that 
you cannot see your way to accept him, but, as I 
said to you yesterday, I am not mercenary. I do 
not wish you to sacrifice yourself. He will be here 
this morning, Doris ; of course you do not wish to 
see him ? * 

‘ I would rather not, mamma/ said Doris in a 
low voice. 

* Then the melancholy task must be mine, I 
suppose/ said Mrs. Cheyne with a smile. * It was 
a mistake to startle you at all with a proposal just 
now. Gentlemen are so odd, Doris. They seem to 
think we are just waiting to say yes to them, when 


io6 


BORIS CIIEYNE. 


they ask us to marry. Your poor dear papa was just 
the same. He asked me point blank without giving 
me the slightest warning. Of course I refused him ; 
then he took the wiser plan — wooed me before he 
won me/ 

Doris’s eyes filled with tears. She wondered 
that her mother could allude so calmly to that past 
happiness. She did not see the impression intended 
to be made upon her. Doris was unsophisticated in 
the world’s ways, her mother was as wily as a 
diplomatist, therefore Doris was at a disadvantage. 

‘How that that is so far settled,’ continued Mrs. 
Cheyne, * I may tell you something else. There is 
a school to be disposed of at Keswick. You have 
heard of the Misses Kaymond’s establishment for 
young ladies. They are old ladies now, and anxious 
to retire. I think it likely we shall purchase the 
goodwill, and remove there during the Christmas 
vacation ; if the concern is as good as it is represented 
to be, we should do very well. Miriam will make 
a splendid principal.’ 

‘I am sure of it,’ said Doris heartily, for their 
troubles seemed to be rolling away. ‘ Mamma, 
promise me you will let me do as I wish. I am 


S/ST£J?S. 


107 

going down to the kitchen to learn. Hannah will be 
very willing to teach me. It would be a great 
saving not to have a maid — at least until we see how 
we are to be. Dear mamma, it is the only way 
in which I can help. If I may not, I shall be 
miserable.* 

‘We shall see about it/ said Mrs. Cheyne. ‘And 
Eosie is to go to your Uncle Penfold. I have a 
kind letter from him this morning. It will be a 
change for her, but she is really very brave about it, 
and we cannot afford to throw any chance away.* 
Doris winced. She felt that she had thrown away 
what her mother regarded as a very good chance. 
She could only wonder that she had escaped so 
easily. 

‘Well, I shall go and leave you to dress,* said 
Mrs. Cheyne, rising. ‘ And I think you had better 
go out for a long walk this morning, so as to be out 
of the way when Mr. Hardwicke calls. He might 
insist upon seeing you, which would be very un- 
comfortable for you, my dear.* 

‘Very well; thank you, dear mamma, I shall 
try to repay you for all your kindness to me/ said 
Doris with unusual demonstrativeness. Mrs. Cheyne 


108 DORIS CHEYNE. 

kissed her, and left the room, satisfied that she had 
done her duty. 

At eleven o’clock the Squire of Hardwicke Manor 
again rode up the avenue to the Swallows’ Nest. 
He looked happy and hopeful ; a penniless girl like 
Doris Cheyne could not afford to refuse him. He 
had a bland smile for the stable-boy, who ran to 
hold his horse, and for the maid who ushered him 
into the library. He had never felt in better spirits. 

Mrs. Cheyne came fluttering into the room im- 
mediately, greeting him with her sweetest smile. 
She had a difficult task before her, one which would 
require all her tact and charm of manner. 

4 Well, ma’am, what’s the verdict ? ’ asked Mr. 
Hardwicke at once, with a certain anxiety in his 
tone. 

He had half expected to see Doris instead of her 
mother, but Mrs. Cheyne’s looks were reassuring. 

* Sit down, dear Mr. Hardwicke. Yes, thank you ; 
I shall take a chair, too. We must have a cosy chat 
over this. I have spoken to Doris.’ 

‘ Ay, and what did she say ? ’ 

Mrs. Cheyne laughed softly, and caressed the folds 
of her dress with her white fingers. 


SISTERS. 


109 


‘ She is very young, Mr. Hardwicke, very young, 
and girlish, and inexperienced. Your offer rather 
startled her. It was so unexpected. I think, 
perhaps, we made a little mistake about it at the 
beginning. You see, she had not the slightest idea 
that you had any regard for her.’ 

‘No, she couldn’t have, for I didn’t know it 
myself, ma’am, until I thought of you all going away,’ 
said Mr. Hardwicke sentimentally. ‘ I .began to feel 
queer when I thought of the little girl going off 
where I couldn’t see her. Then, says I to myself, 
says I, What does this mean ? Then I answers. It 
means marriage ; and so it does, Mrs. Cheyne. Tell 
me exactly what she said.’ 

‘ I could scarcely do that. I don’t believe she 
said anything at all, now that I think of it. She 
cried a little, as all girls do over their first offer ; but 
she is very sensible of your generous kindness, Mr. 
Hardwicke.’ 

‘ Maybe, hut did she say she’d have me ? That’s 
the main point, Mrs. Cheyne,’ said the squire, 
bringing his clenched hand down on the table with 
a thump. 

‘ She didn’t say she wouldn’t, but ’ — 


no 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


1 Couldn’t I see her this morning ? I don’t believe 
in third parties, if you’ll excuse me saying it so plain. 
I’d be better satisfied to get ay or no from Miss 
Doris’s own lips/ 

Mrs. Cheyne rather nervously clasped her hands 
on her knee, but still kept the same smiling, calm 
expression. 

‘You are quite right, Mr. Hardwicke; but some 
things take. a little management. I sent Doris out 
this morning, because I wanted to see you alone. Do 
you care very much about her ? Would it be a 
great disappointment to you not to win her?’ 

‘ Yes, it would. I like her. She’s none of your 
silly wenches. She has more than ordinary in her. 
She’ll develop into a splendid woman. I like every- 
thing extra good, out of the common if possible, and 
why not when I can pay for it ? ’ said Mr. Hardwicke, 
unconscious that he was saying anything offensive or 
out of taste. * You were astonished, ma’am, when I 
told you which of your daughters I wanted ; but I 
know what I am doing ; trust J osiah Hardwicke for 
that. Miss Miriam’s a beautiful creature, I don’t 
deny, but she won’t last. When Miss Doris has seen 
a bit of the world, and has ten years more on her 


SISTERS. 


1 1 1 


head, it won’t be easy to find her equal ; mark my 
words.’ 

4 Then, Mr. Hardwicke, if you are anxious to marry 
her, you must try first of all to win her affections. 
It may take a little time, for Doris is a strange girl. 
She is distant, and often disagreeable to those she 
loves. She is very proud, too. She resents the 
idea of your marrying her, lest it should be out of 
pity.’ 

‘ If that had been my reason, ma’am, I’d have 
asked the best-looking,’ said Josiah Hardwicke. ‘ Of 
course, in present circumstances it would be a lucky 
thing for her to get a home like the Manor, but I’d 
never cast it up to her. I’m not that kind of man.’ 

‘ I’m sure of it. Then will you try my plan ? 
Mind, Doris hasn’t refused you, only she thinks you 
must pay some attention to her. Girls are fond of 
attention, you know; a little gift now and again 
goes a long way.’ 

* I won’t grudge the money. I’m not mean, 
whatever I am. I’ll buy diamonds for her if she’ll 
wear them — the fruits of my honest toil, Mrs. 
Cheyne/ said Mr. Hardwicke proudly. 

‘ Hot yet, though,’ corrected Mrs. Cheyne. * May I 


12 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


offer yon advice, Mr. Hardwicke? I am Doris’s 
mother, and I know her through and through. 
Continue your visits to the house. Be kind, but not 
specially attentive to Doris. When you get a 
chance, speak sympathetically to her ; just now she 
has only one idea, that is, her father.’ 

Here Mrs. Cheyne wiped her eyes. ‘If you are 
often here, you will become indispensable to her ; you 
know what I mean. You must win Doris by degrees, 
or not at all.’ 

The idea pleased Mr. Hardwicke. The difficulties 
in his way made Doris seem yet more desirable. 
He was in earnest. Strange as it may seem, the 
quiet, reserved, plain girl possessed great attractions 
for him. Mrs. Cheyne saw the impression she had 
made, and skilfully followed it up. 

Before he left he had pledged himself to advance 
whatever sum might be required for the purchase of 
the school at Keswick. He was a shrewd, clever 
man in his way, but no match for Emily Cheyne. 




CHAPTER YIL 

A WORLDLY WOMAN. 

‘Every door is barr’d with gold, and opens but to golden keys.* 

Tennyson. 

ABRIEL WIND RIDGE had had a long 
and weary day. He had been called at 
the dawning to see a sick woman in a 
shepherd’s hnt beyond the Kirkstone Pass, and had 
reached her bedside only to find her dying. The 
spark of life had fled while he stood helplessly by, 
and the occurrence had saddened and depressed 
him. 

Other things, too, were weighing on his mind, and 
altogether life looked dreary enough to him as he 
rode slowly along the road between Ambleside and 
Grasmere towards the close of that bleak December 
afternoon. 

Just on the outskirts of Rydal he saw Miriam 
10 



DORIS CHEYNE. 


114 

Cheyne. The sight of the tall, graceful figure in 
black made his heart beat, and he became suddenly 
conscious of his unkempt and mud - bespattered 
condition. The cob had been wading ankle-deep 
in mud on the bridle-paths through the hills. 
Nevertheless he urged the animal forward, anxious 
to overtake Miss Cheyne before she should turn 
up the road to the Swallows’ Nest. It was many 
months since he had had an opportunity of speaking 
to her alone. 

She did not look round at the sound of approach- 
ing hoofs, but intuition told her that the rider was 
Gabriel Windridge. 

* Good afternoon, Miss Cheyne. I hope you are 
quite well ? * 

As he spoke he stepped from the saddle, threw 
the reins over his arm, and lifted his hat. 

Miss Cheyne smiled upon him, and gave him her 
hand. Her colour had risen when she knew he was 
approaching, but it had now faded, leaving only the 
delicate rose bloom which always dwelt upon her cheek. 
She betrayed no sign of confusion, her magnificent 
eyes did not falter as they met his impassioned gaze. 
Miriam was absolutely mistress of herself. 


A WORLDLY WOMAN. 


* I must apologise for my appearance/ he said 
with a laugh. ‘ I have been in the saddle since 
daybreak ; and the mountain paths are nearly im- 
passable with the rains. Are you quite well ? ’ 

‘ Quite well, thank you/ returned Miriam serenely. 
‘ You look tired.’ 

‘ I am tired ; I had not above a couple of hours’ 
sleep last night. A country practitioner’s life, Miss 
Cheyne, is no sinecure, more especially if he happens 
to be a poor assistant.’ 

* Does Dr. Prescott take no share now \ * 

* Very little, except when a message comes from 
Conimore Hall or Girdlestone. I do not go there/ 
returned Gabriel Windridge, with some bitterness. 

‘ Some day you will be another Dr. Prescott, with 
an unfortunate assistant, whom you can persecute, 
just by way of retaliation/ said Miriam, showing her 
white teeth in a little malicious smile. 

* I hope, if I am ever lucky enough to be in a 
position like Prescott, I shall have more humanity,’ 
said Windridge shortly. * When do you leave 
Rydal ? ’ 

‘Next week.’ 

* How do you like the prospect ? * 


n6 


DORIS C HEY NR. 


4 ISTot at all/ answered Miss Cheyne, and her brow 
visibly darkened. ‘ But it has to be done. We are 
suffering now through the folly of another.’ 

She referred to her father, and her tone was very 
bitter. Gabriel Windridge did not like it. He was 
passionately in love with Miriam Cheyne, but some- 
times a tone of her voice, a look, a gesture, jarred 
upon his finer instincts. 

4 I have never seen you since all this trouble 
came/ he said gently. ‘ You know how I sympathize 
with you all.’ 

4 Don’t pity us, if you please/ said Miss Cheyne 
coldly. 4 We get too much of that. It is cheap, 
and is supposed to be kind. It is not, however ; to 
me it is the chief sting of our poverty/ 

Her cheek grew red, her perfect lips compressed, 
she struck the ground with the ebony walking-stick 
in her hand. 

4 1 beg your pardon, Miss Cheyne. I was sincere 
in what I said/ said Gabriel Windridge humbly, for 
her beauty mastered him. He could have knelt and 
worshipped her at that moment. 

4 1 believe you. Good afternoon. Well, if you 
choose to add to your fatigue by climbing the hill 


A WORLDLY WOMAN. 


117 


with me, you may/ she said banteringly, yet secretly 
not ill-pleased. She liked to see the adoration in 
the surgeon’s fine eyes; it made her proud heart 
beat a little faster. 

The cob, yearning for the gross delights of corn 
and hay, made a show of resistance at the turn of 
the road, but his master’s firm hand on the bridle 
calmed him, and he followed dejectedly and with 
reluctant step. 

‘ 1 am at least thankful that you are to be no 
farther away than Keswick/ Windridge said. ‘ May 
I call when I am in the town ? * 

‘Mamma no doubt will be pleased to see you/ 
said Miriam evasively. 

‘ Will you be glad to see me, Miss Cheyne ? * 

‘ Why should I be specially glad ? ’ she asked, 
with her eyes down-bent, and with an exquisite 
colour in her cheek. 

* There is no reason why you should be, only you 
know that if I come at all it will be to see you/ said 
Windridge, marvelling at his own temerity. 

‘ Then don’t come/ she answered abruptly, and 
they took the next few steps in silence. 

‘Why not?’ 


T 18 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


‘ You know best/ she answered, and lifted her 
calm eyes to his face. If their depths had been 
ruffled by any passing tenderness, she had mastered 
it at once. 

‘ I must speak, though I am mad, I believe, to 
presume/ cried Windridge in impassioned tones. 
‘ Miriam, I love you. Will you let me work for 
you ? Will you give me the right to take you from 
the toil which is not for such as you ? If you only 
give me one word of hope, it will make a man of me. 
For your sake I shall succeed/ 

Both stood still, and the cob took advantage of 
the pause to munch a mouthful of green from the 
sloping bank. 

Miriam was pale, for she was making an effort. 
Her heart pleaded for Gabriel Windridge. He was 
such an one as readily wins a woman’s love and 
trust, being in himself so true. 

‘ What is the use of being so foolish ? * she asked, 
quite calmly. 4 We are both as poor as church mice. 
We can be friendly, and condole with each other; 
don’t you think that is the wiser way ? * 

Windridge bit his lip. It was a poor answer to 
his impassioned pleading. 4 1 love you, Miriam/ he 


A WORLDLY WOMAN. 


119 

repeated, and tried to take her hand, but she drew 
back. 

‘ Or you think you do ; it is the same thing/ she 
said calmly, as before. ‘Poor people cannot afford 
such a luxury. They have to devote their whole 
energies towards earning the bread they must eat. 
It is only the rich who can afford such a pleasant 
pastime/ 

Her cold, false reasoning repelled Windridge; it 
chilled his enthusiasm, yet he loved her well ; he 
had never seen one so beautiful as she looked then ; 
distant, haughty, unapproachable as a queen. 

‘I only asked a word of hope, nothing more, 
until I had something substantial to offer you. 
If I were a rich man, could you care for me, 
Miriam ? ’ 

‘What is the use of assuming anything? You 
are not rich, nor am I. Let us he friends.’ 

‘ But I am young. I have life before me/ said 
Windridge eagerly, his heart’s desire urging him to 
plead with yet greater earnestness. ‘Tor your sake 
I could dare anything, and win anything.’ 

‘ The days of chivalry and doughty deeds are past/ 
said Miriam Cheyne, with a slight cold smile. ‘ It is 


120 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


easy to talk. We have to walk the beaten tracks now, 
and they are not paved with gold/ 

‘ But if I work hard and obtain a good position, 
may I come, Miriam ? * 

‘If that happy day ever comes, we can discuss 
the matter again/ she said quietly. * Good-bye, Dr. 
Windridge/ 

He longed to clasp the queenly figure in his arms, 
to whisper words of passionate endearment, of 
gratitude, even for such a slender thread of hope. 
But he did not dare. They parted with an ordinary 
hand-clasp, and went their separate ways. 

When Miriam Cheyne was left alone on the quiet 
road, she stood still a moment, and a shiver ran 
through her frame. Her lip quivered, and one 
bitter tear trembled for a moment on her eyelash. 
It was at once dashed aside, and with it the 
momentary weakness which had crept over her. 
Almost immediately she was herself again. And 
thus Miriam Cheyne put away out of her life for 
ever what might have made her a happier and better 
woman. Her very selfishness was the instrument 
with which she bitterly punished herself. She was 
not capable of that deep, earnest love which glorifies 


A WORLDLY WOMAN. 


121 


hardship and self-sacrifice, but such slight affection 
as she possessed was given to Gabriel Windridge. 
She had had many admirers, but few lovers ; 
perhaps he was the first. 

No quality in a man is so appreciated by a 
woman as manliness. A brave, true, independent 
spirit wins regard very quickly in the feminine 
heart. Gabriel Windridge was manly, and all 
women liked him. We have seen how Doris laid 
her heart bare before him; he could have received 
no higher tribute to his worthiness, because Doris 
revealed herself to very few. His manliness, then, 
had won Miriam Cheyne’s respect and esteem, but 
no idea of marriage with him ever occurred to her. 
Even had he been Dr. Prescott’s successor, instead 
of his assistant, she would probably have refused to 
share his lot. Miriam had ambitions. How high 
they soared may be left to the imagination. Some- 
times she saw herself with a coronet on her brow, 
receiving the homage of the noblest in the land, but 
as yet the earl had not come riding by. Now he 
was farther off than ever; a poor schoolmistress 
would have but small chance of meeting those of 

high degree. But though poverty, with all its bitter 
11 


122 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


attributes and none of its sweets, had overtaken 
Miriam in the heyday of her dreaming, her pride and 
ambition had suffered no abatement. Perhaps they 
were rather enhanced and strengthened. She told 
herself sometimes she would defy destiny, and rise 
in spite of fate. Miriam believed in chance, and 
although she had been reared in a church-going 
family, religion was a sound without meaning to her. 
She had a vague belief, it is true, in an overruling 
power of some sort, but she knew or cared nothing 
for that blessed Providence without whose guiding 
hand we were indeed lost on this turbulent sea of 
life. Self was in the meantime the idol of Miriam 
Cheyne. 

The arrangements about the transfer of the school 
at Keswick had been satisfactorily concluded ; Mr. 
Hardwicke had paid the sum required for the good- 
will, and had also taken the furniture at a valuation. 
Only Miriam knew this; Doris was not practical 
enough yet even to wonder where the money had 
come from. She was busy and happy just then, 
spending the best part of the day in the kitchen, 
applying herself with all her might to the acquiring 
of household knowledge. Domestic economy was at 


A WORLDLY WOMAN. 


123 


tliafc time in Doris’s estimation the only science 
worth studying. They let her alone, and when Mr. 
Hardwicke learned how she was occupying herself, 
he was profoundly impressed. His admiration for 
her increased, and being in London one day he 
brought hack with him a very large folio on domestic 
management, and a cookery - book containing five 
thousand recipes. These he sent over by his groom 
with a very kind note, worded in a friendly, almost 
fatherly tone, begging her acceptance, and hoping she 
would find them useful. Doris, believing that the 
man understood that a certain vexed question was 
finally settled, was largely delighted over her gifts, 
and almost touched by his kindness. She began to 
think that she must have misjudged him, for he had 
been really very neighbourly and kind, and had not 
allowed her refusal to make the slightest difference. 
Mrs. Cheyne, narrowly watching Doris, saw that the 
gift, absurd in itself, was well received, and she 
inwardly congratulated herself. A suite of rooms at 
Hardwicke Manor might yet be hers. 

Mr. Hardwicke had called several times at the 
Swallows’ Nest, and had seen Doris, but never alone. 
Mrs. Cheyne manoeuvred to effect this, dreading lest 


124 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


Mr. Hardwicke, in his anxiety, might let fall some 
chance word at which Doris might take alarm. 
Prudence and caution must be observed if the 
scheme were to succeed. Doris, quite unconscious 
of all this by-play, was happy because she was busy, 
and had her thoughts fully occupied. What though 
puddings and pies, sweeping, dusting, mending, and 
darning were the burden of these thoughts ? She 
was making a woman of herself. In these advanced 
days there is a disposition among young women to 
ignore the existence of such homely occupations, 
quite forgetting that to be a good housewife and 
homekeeper is to fulfil the first and chief destiny of 
womankind. At the very moment when Miriam 
was talking with Gabriel Windridge on the road, 
Doris was talking to Mr. Hardwicke in the drawing- 
room, Mrs. Cheyne and the other three girls had 
driven to Windermere to get some additions to 
Kosie’s wardrobe before she should go to her uncle 
in London. 

When the maid-servant brought Doris Mr. Hard- 
wicke’s card, she went up-stairs without the slightest 
hesitation. His offer of marriage and its attendant 
miseries (for Doris had been very miserable at that 


A WORLDLY WOMAN. 


125 

time) seemed like a dream to her now, and she was 
glad that it should be so. There were no pleasant 
memories connected with those days, except perhaps 
the walk through the rain with Gabriel Windridge. 
Doris was conscious of a lingering sweetness in her 
heart over that episode ; she thought of it sometimes, 
and of his helpful words when she was tired, and 
they rested her — a dangerous sign in a young girl, 
but Doris knew nothing about signs. 

4 And how are you, my dear ? * asked Mr. Hard- 
wicke, beaming all over as he clasped Doris’s hot 
hand in his. She had been trying experiments in 
the oven all the morning, and there were several 
suggestive powderings of flour on her hair; Otherwise 
she was neat and dainty enough in her appearance. 

‘I am quite well, thank you/ Doris answered, 
releasing her hand quickly. ‘ There is no one at 
home but me. Mamma and the girls, all but 
Miriam, are at Windermere. I do not know where 
Miriam is/ 

Mr. Hardwicke grinned. 

4 She’s standing on the road with her sweetheart, 
Miss Doris. I saw them as I rode in at the gate, 
but they didn’t see me.’ 


126 


DORIS CHE YNE. 


Doris stared. 

‘ You don’t know what I mean, eh ? * said Mr. 
Hardwicke heartily. ‘ She was speaking to Wind- 
ridge, and they were mighty earnest-like. Shouldn’t 
wonder if that was a match.’ 

Doris had received another shock. She had never 
associated Windridge with Miriam, they seemed to 
be the antipodes of each other. 

‘ Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Hardwicke/ was all 
she said, and immediately changed the subject by 
thanking him, for the hooks he had sent. 

4 Don’t mention it, it’s nothing. I’d do far more 
if you’d let me,’ he said fussily. ‘When I heard 
you were going in for housekeeping, I thought I’d 
buy something to show you I approved of it. I bet 
now you’d rather have these two books than a 
diamond necklace.’ 

Doris laughed. 

‘ What should I do with a diamond necklace, 
Mr. Hardwicke V Ah, there is Miriam coming up 
the avenue ! How pale she looks ! It is surely 
cold out of doors this morning ? ’ 

‘ Hot particularly. Perhaps the surgeon and she 
have been falling out, then they’ll be cold enough. 


A WORLDLY WOMAJV. 


127 


you know/ said Mr. Hardwicke facetiously; but 
Doris did not see the point of his remark. She was 
rather glad to hear Miriam enter the house, somehow 
she did not feel quite comfortable with Mr. Hard- 
wicke. For that she blamed herself, believing him 
only neighbourly and kind. 

As for Mr. Hardwicke, he was quite pleased at 
the few words he had had with Doris. He told 
himself that there was a distinct improvement in 
her manner towards him. Mrs. Cheyne was a wise 
woman. Having followed her advice, he was un- 
doubtedly ‘getting on/ 




CHAPTER VIII. 

FACING TIIE FUTURE. 

There’s life alone in duty done, 

And rest alone in striving.’ 

Whittier. 

HE house presented a cold, desolate appear- 
ance when Doris slipped softly down-stairs 
shortly after six o’clock on the morning 
of the twenty-fourth of December. The carpets 
were lifted, and lying rolled up on the floors ; the 
furniture stood about in confusion, with small 
numbered tickets attached to each article. There 
was to be an auction sale at the Swallows’ Nest on 
the twenty-eighth for behoof of the creditors of 
Robert Cheyne. The servants had all left the house, 
and the inmates were now dependent for their 
comforts upon Doris’s slender knowledge of domestic 

affairs. She seemed at home in her work, however, 

128 



FACING THE FUTURE. 


129 


for it took her only a few minutes to light the 
kitchen fire and set on the kettle. Then she 
proceeded to make the breakfast parlour comfortable 
before the others should come down-stairs. By seven 
o’clock a cheerful fire was burning merrily there, 
the breakfast laid, and Doris herself seated at the 
table swallowing a hasty meal. She had a great 
deal before her that day, and in comparison with 
the others was to be envied. She had really no 
time to fret over the hardships of her lot. But 
for Doris, I do not know what would have become 
of these women at that time. She thought of 
everything, and not only thought, but acted; and 
all so quietly and without fuss, that they had no 
idea of the magnitude of her work. They had so 
long lived perfectly idle and purposeless lives, that 
it seemed impossible for them to rouse themselves 
even when necessity seemed to demand it. Kitty 
certainly took spasmodic fits of helping Doris 
with packing and other domestic affairs, but she 
was more of a hindrance than anything else. I 
cannot quite tell you what a wonderful development 
had taken place in Doris during the short space 
of a month. Instead of a dreamer, she became a 


130 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


worker; and though the work was commonplace, 
and even menial, she did it with all her might, 
and found pleasure in it. All her powers were 
called into action, she had to think and plan and 
act for them all, a glorious and necessary thing for 
Doris just then. Nothing could have been more 
opportune or useful for her. 

She slipped very noiselessly about the house, 
being particularly anxious that none of them should 
be awakened. After taking her breakfast she 
scribbled a short note, which she left on her 
mother’s plate. It simply said she had gone away 
to catch the early coach in order to have a fire 
and some comfort in the new house before they 
should arrive in the afternoon. Doris had also 
another errand, but of that she said nothing. She 
did not take long to make her toilet, and having 
secured the keys of the Keswick house, she took 
one hurried look round the familiar home and stole 
out of doors, just as Kitty had sleepily suggested to 
Josephine that it might be time for them to get up. 

The day was just breaking when Doris stepped 
out to the gravelled sweep before the house, and 
the air was bitterly cold and keen. A slight 


FACING THE FUTURE. 


*3 T 

shower of snow had fallen during the night, and 
lay like manna on the ground. The frost was 
intense, the sky clear, hard, and cold ; it was a fine 
winter morning. Doris had in one hand a small 
bag, in the other a cross of evergreen and moss she 
had woven together in her own room before she 
slept. It wanted a few Christmas roses to brighten 
it, so Doris stole round to the garden, gathered a 
bunch, and fastened them like stars among the 
green. As she did so, tears dropped upon her 
hands ; she felt keenly this parting from the home 
which was hallowed and endeared by memories of a 
father’s love. Kobert Cheyne might have erred in 
his foolish pursuit of gain, but the memories he had 
left to his children were wholly worthy. He had 
been the best of fathers, a good man and true in 
his own home, and that is much. Doris revered 
his memory with a passionate and yearning love. 

As she stole along the avenue, the robins hopped 
and chirped about her feet, as if saucily inquiring 
why she was so early abroad. She smiled when 
she noticed them, their greeting was kindly, and 
gave her better heart. She turned her head just 
as the house was receding from view, and took a 


132 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


long, long look, as if to photograph it on her 
memory. Then her lips moved, perhaps in prayer, 
and she hurried on her way. The light grew 
broader as she walked, and her heart .grew lighter 
too. She had left the old behind; the new, all 
untried, lay before her, demanding all her thought 
and energy. Doris was not one to brood on the 
past, to draw bitter comparisons betwixt * then and 
now.’ She had that wonderful and blessed power 
of accepting at once the inevitable, of adapting 
herself to whatever circumstances might surround 
her. She would make the best of everything ; and 
is not that the true secret of happiness and content- 
ment in this life ? 

Doris only met one man on the road between 
Rydal and Grasmere — one of those melancholy 
wanderers who live in the open air, and who have 
no habitation upon the face of the earth. She 
bade him a pleasant good-morning, and seeing his 
need, gave him a copper, for which he seemed 
grateful. Seeing the lady alone on the unfrequented 
way, he had intended to make good his opportunity, 
and demand substantial help. But her pleasant 
word disarmed him, he took the copper meekly, 


FACING THE FUTURE. 


i33 


and, with a touch of his ragged cap, moved on. 
Seeing his abject condition, Doris thought of her 
own mercies, and was grateful. So the wanderer, 
all unconscious, had had his influence on the girl’s 
heart and life. 

Grasmere seemed still asleep when she entered 
it; at least there was no one to be seen out of 
doors. Nothing could be more deserted and melan- 
choly than Grasmere on a winter morning. There 
is nothing to remind one of the pleasant stir and 
bustle that characterize it during the season. The 
hotels are empty, the boarding-houses closed, it 
seems almost like a village of the dead. No one 
observed Doris slip into the churchyard, and she 
was glad of it. She did not wish to speak to any 
one, or to answer the inevitable questions which an 
acquaintance would be sure to ask. She had only 
come to take a last look at her father’s grave, not 
knowing when she might stand beside it again. 
Certainly it was not a long way to Keswick, but 
she expected to be closely occupied. Besides, it 
was not a great satisfaction to Doris to stand by 
that green mound. She didn’t feel as if anything 
she loved were there. Sometimes she would uplift 


*34 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


her eyes in dumb entreaty to the skies as if seeking 
to penetrate its mystery, and find the great loving 
heart from which she was parted for a little while. 
Doris’s grief was many-sided, it had many strange 
aspects to herself, but she was coming gradually 
out of the deeps, she was within touch of the 
almighty hand of God. He was leading her by 
ways she knew not, very near to Himself. By 
taking the duty lying nearest to her, she had 
received a blessing which would be multiplied as 
the days went by. If only we could always do 
as Doris did, we should be saved many perplexities. 

Doris laid her cross above the now withered 
wreaths on the grave, and after touching the turf 
with a very tender hand, turned away. She did 
not care to stand there this morning ; she felt the 
upheaving of regrets which could avail nothing 
except to dishearten and pain her. 

She took a walk round the churchyard, reading a 
name here and another there, each one more familiar 
than the last, and then passed out of the gates. 
She would walk along the Keswick Road, she 
thought, until the coach should overtake her. 

The sun had now risen, and the effect on the 


FACING THE FUTURE. 


J 3 5 


whitened landscape was indescribably beautiful. 
Doris, with her keen eye for nature’s lovely pictures, 
feasted her eyes upon it all, and feeling the delicious 
morning air about her, was hopeful and happy. 
This hour of solitude was preparing her, as nothing 
else could have done, for the trying duties of the 
day. As she was leisurely beginning the ascent 
of Dunmail Eaise she heard the horn blowing in 
Grasmere, indicating that the coach had entered the 
village. Just then a horse and rider, whom Doris 
knew very well, appeared on the crest of the hill, 
and it seemed to Doris that her only unfulfilled 
wish was gratified. She had earnestly wished a 
word with Gabriel Windridge before she left the 
old home and its associations behind. The surgeon 
had made the first call on his round, though it 
was only half -past nine. 

He had a long day before him, the severity of 
the weather having considerably added to the 
number of his patients. Life had not seemed 
very bright of late to Gabriel Windridge. Dr. 
Prescott was more trying than ever, and the 
assistant was tired of his lot. Yet how could he 
better it ? He had not a penny in the world, and 


136 DORIS CHEYNE, 

knew nobody who would advance the money to 
buy a practice. Dr. Prescott was always talking 
of retiring, and had even hinted that Windridge 
should have his practice on easy terms. But as yet 
there had been no outcome of that half-promise, and 
Windridge was growing weary with hope deferred. 

He had been day - dreaming in a melancholy 
fashion about a grand future in which Miriam 
Cheyne was the central figure, when suddenly he 
was surprised by the. vision of her sister Doris right 
before him on the road. He managed to lift his 
hat in response to her pleasant good-morning, and 
as she stood still he drew rein, and bent down 
from the saddle to shake hands with her. 

* Good-morning, Miss Doris ; you are always 
appearing at the most unlikely times and places,’ 
he said comically. ‘ May I ask without presumption 
what you are doing so far from home, so early in 
the day ? ’ 

* I am waiting for the coach to overtake me. It 
will be here presently. I caught a glimpse of the 
driver’s red coat a minute ago.’ 

‘ Oh ! are Mrs. Cheyne and the young ladies in 
it ? ’ he asked, with unmistakable eagerness. 


FACING THE FUTURE. 


*37 


* No ; I have stolen a march upon them. I took 
French leave of the Nest this morning, so that I 
might make the new place home - like for them 
before they come/ 

Gabriel Windridge looked down into the girl’s 
grave, earnest face with something akin to tender- 
ness in his eyes. Her thoughtfulness touched him, 
it exhibited a spirit so sweet and unselfish that, 
unconsciously, he felt himself rebuked. How 
bravely this young girl had taken up her cross, 
how bright and earnest and uncomplaining in her 
acceptance of changed circumstances and irksome 
duties ! Doris was quite unconscious that she had 
read Gabriel Windridge a lesson that morning. 

‘You are very good/ he said quietly. ‘You 
remind me very much of your father. He was 
always thinking of others, just as you are/ 

Doris’s face flushed, and her eyes shone. She 
wished no higher tribute than to be like him, for 
to her he had been wholly noble. 

* How are you ? ’ she asked after a little silence. 
‘ Why do you come to see us so seldom ? * 

It was his turn to redden now ; but he made no 

answer. He did not wish to say anything about 
12 


1 38 DORIS CHEYNE. 

Miriam, and he would not tell a petty falsehood, 
and say his many duties prevented him. 

‘ I am quite well in health, thanks ; but in spirits 
out of tune. I fear I am a grumbler, Miss Doris/ 

‘ Oh no, you are not that ! You, who do so much 
good, could have no pretence for grumbling/ 

‘ I do good ? In what way ? I have just been 
telling myself this very morning that I am a 
cumberer of the ground/ 

‘There you are wrong. Why, your whole time 
is spent in doing good. I do think, Dr. Wind- 
ridge, that your profession is the noblest in the 
world/ said Doris in her earnest fashion. Wind- 
ridge liked to see the light kindle in her fine eyes. 
It gave expression, beauty even, to her face. He 
no longer thought her plain. His admiration for 
the fine spirit of her womanhood was extending to 
her personal appearance. Love beautifies and in- 
vests its object with a thousand nameless graces 
unrevealed to the indifferent eye. 

Windridge was not, of course, in love with Doris, 
being enchained by her sister. But he knew that 
he enjoyed talking to her, that he felt at ease and 
even happy in her presence; sometimes when any 


FACING THE FUTURE. 


139 


new thought struck him, or any special experience 
happened to him in his profession, he caught himself 
wondering what view she would take of it. He 
would have made a friend and confidante of her, 
had opportunity been given. 

‘ I am coming to see you at Keswick, Miss Doris,’ 
he said quickly, for the coach was in sight. ‘I 
want a very long talk with you.’ 

‘Do come. I shall be pleased,’ Doris answered 
sincerely. 

‘I want to relieve my mind. Would you let 
me abuse old Prescott to you for five minutes or 
so, just to let off the steam ? ’ he asked, with a 
twinkle in his eye. 

‘ Perhaps I should, if I were allowed the privilege of 
stopping you when I thought you had said enough.’ 

‘ All right. I’ll gather up until I can’t hold out 
any longer; then I’ll ride poor Jack like a fury 
over Dunmail Eaise to you,’ said Windridge. 

In a moment, however, the laughter died out of 
his eyes, and he again stooped from his saddle. 

‘Miss Doris, how did it end — what you spoke 
to me about ? You look so happy, I think it must 
be all right.’ 


1 40 D ORIS CHE YNE. 

' It is all right/ said Doris, with a nod. ‘ It was 
you who helped me to make up my mind/ 

‘ There was no unpleasantness over it, I hope ? * 

‘ None. He was very good about it/ Doris answered, 
with a slight tinge of colour. * They were all very 
good. Of course it was a disappointment. I am 
trying to be as useful as I can. It is wonderful, 
when one is in real earnest, what ways are opened 
up. I think I have been a comfort just now. I 
have tried to think of all that had to be done, and 
to do it/ 

‘ I believe you. God bless you ! We are friends, 
aren’t we ? * 

* Yes, always/ 

Their hands met. Had not the coach been so 
near, Gabriel Windridge would have kissed that 
womanly hand, so sincere and true was his admira- 
tion for Doris Cheyne. A few minutes more and 
Doris was inside the lumbering vehicle, and Wind- 
ridge was cantering towards Grasmere, happier and 
better for his five minutes’ chat with Doris Cheyne. 

It was about noon when Doris turned the key in 
the door of the new house in Keswick. She could 
not repress a sigh as she entered the little narrow 






FACING THE FUTURE. 


M3 


gateway and walked up the short, flagged passage 
to the door. 

It was a solid, square, two-storeyed house, uniform 
with the rest in the street, distinguished, perhaps, by 
the general dinginess of its aspect. The little plots 
on either side of the door were intersected by 
various narrow walks, laid with white pebble stones ; 
but there was not a green thing to be seen. Doris 
mentally resolved that she should have all these 
deformities removed, and grass substituted. It 
would at least not be scP trying to the eyes. 

It was a commodious house, but to Doris it 
seemed cramped. The front windows commanded 
only a view of the street, but those at the back 
overlooked a prospect which far surpassed anything 
to be seen from the windows at the Nest ; Derwent- 
water, with its wildly-beautiful shores, its encircling 
mountains casting their deep shadows on its breast ; 
Bassenthwaite, reflecting the graceful peak of 
Skiddaw ; the rugged crests of the Borrodale 
Hills — all these delighted the eyes of Doris. Her 
spirits rose. She looked forward to many happy 
hours spent in exploring the beauties of the 
neighbourhood. She could even think well of the 


144 


DORIS CHEYNE . 


dingy house, because of the prospect its upper 
windows commanded. 

She set to work with a will, for she had much 
to accomplish before they should arrive in the 
afternoon. After consulting with her Uncle Penfold, 
Doris had managed to smuggle certain articles away 
from the Nest ; secretly, because she wished to give 
her mother a pleasant surprise. The things were 
not of much value in themselves — an old-fashioned, 
chintz- covered lounging-chair, a little Japanese work 
and tea table, a few pictures, and little ornaments 
Mrs. Cheyne had specially liked. These were all, 
but when they were arranged they gave the bare, 
formal-looking room a comfortable and home-like 
appearance which delighted Doris. 

When she had hung up warm, crimson curtains 
at the window and lighted the fire, nothing could 
have looked more inviting. Then there was a 
lovely peep at Derwent water from the window, with 
which Doris hoped her mother would be charmed. 
When the room was in readiness, she shut the 
door and went to see what could be done in other 
parts of the house. It looked very dreary, and cold, 
and strange. She only looked into the two big 


FACING THE FUTURE . 


T 45 

class-rooms, with their bare floors and rows of 
forms, and retired with a shiver. Nothing could 
be done to give them a homely look ; it was within 
their walls that the hardest part of their discipline 
lay. She pictured Miriam, tall and queenly, moving 
about these rooms, giving lessons in history and 
geography, and somehow she dismally shook her head. 
She could not help them there, and something told 
her that it would be just there they would need 
help. She tried to banish these thoughts, and 
busied herself in the kitchen (her own domain 
henceforth) until it was time to infuse the tea. 

Doris had not forgotten anything. The afternoon 
tea-set which Miriam had painted, the dainty five o’clock 
tea-cloth Josephine had embroidered, and the tea-cosy 
Kitty had made, were all there. Nothing was new or 
strange or common — it was just like the tea-table 
at the Nest. At half-past four a cab rattled noisily 
up the street, and drew up at the door. Doris flew 
down-stairs to welcome her mother and bring her in. 

‘ Is this the place ? Dear me, what a common stuffy 
house ! * was Mrs. Cheyne’s first exclamation. ‘ What 
on earth have you been doing here all day, Doris ? ’ 

‘ Come up-stairs and I shall show you,’ cried Doris 
13 


146 DORIS CHEYNE. 

gleefully. ‘Follow me, girls; tea is all ready. 
How cold you all look ! * 

Kitty was the only one who looked pleased or 
interested. The faces of Miriam and Josephine 
wore expressions of sour disgust. 

‘Dear me! this is rather nice!* Mrs. Cheyne 
said, when Doris led her into the pretty little 
room. ‘ How comfortable ! and all our own things ! 
How did they come here ? 1 

‘Never mind, mother dear. They are here, and 
they are yours. This is your own sanctum/ said 
Doris gleefully. ‘ Let me take off your bonnet and 
hoots. Kitty, do pour out the tea. Mother needs it/ 

‘Eeally, you are very kind, Doris. I cannot 
think how you can be troubled to think of such 
things/ said Mrs. Cheyne, with languid approval. 

She leaned back in her cosy chair, and allowed 
Doris to unlace her boots. 

What was her thought at the moment ? Was 
it loving gratitude to the brave, bright, patient girl 
who had thought and done so much for her ? 

She only thought that Doris was really very 
helpful, and that she might not miss her maid so 
very much after alL 



CHAPTEK IX. 

PERPLEXITIES. 

*Men can counsel, and speak comfort to that grief 
Which they themselves not feel.’ 

Shakespeare. 

you had your dinner, Windridge ? 
Yes — ah well, you’d better go up to 
Hardwicke Manor immediately,’ said 
Dr. Prescott, when his assistant entered the library 
one evening about six o’clock. 

‘ Is one of the servants ill, sir ? * Windridge asked, 
with a slight curl of the lip. He had never before 
been asked to go to so fine a house as the Manor. 

‘What do you mean by that sneer ? 1 asked the 
old man irascibly. * Ho, one of the servants is not 
ill, sir. It’s the squire himself, and the message 
said Dr. Windridge was to come up. Will that 
please you? You’re getting yourself wormed by 
degrees into favour with my patients/ 

147 



148 


DORIS CHEYNE . 


* If the patients prefer my services to yours, sir, 
I cannot help it. I simply do my duty to the best 
of my ability. If my success is unpleasant to you, 
I am quite willing to leave/ 

‘ Hoity toity ! We’re getting very high and 
mighty,’ said the old man, with a grin. ‘ Pray, why 
should your success, as you term it, be unpleasant to 
me ? Do you think I’m jealous, eh ? The conceit of 
the rising generation is incredible.’ 

Windridge bit his lip and turned upon his heel 
to go. 

‘ And as to leaving, where would you go, eh ? 
I’d like to know if you would he better off anywhere 
than you are here. Pray, are you not treated as if 
you were my own son ? ’ 

A dry smile touches Windridge’s lips. 

‘ I cannot tell how you might have treated your 
own son, Dr. Prescott. Only I know I feel unhappy 
enough at times.’ 

‘ Unhappy, eh ? ’ 

The old man sat up very straight in his chair, and 
grew very red in the face. He looked very angry 
indeed, but he was not in the least irritated. Dr. 
Prescott’s disagreeable manner and mode of speech 


PERPLEXITIES. 


149 


were rather things of outward habit than of inward 
feeling. Windridge had become necessary to him. 
He admired his independent spirit — nay, even loved 
him in a way. 

* And pray what are you unhappy about ? Do 
you want your salary raised, eh ? ’ 

* It would be no more than my due,’ Windridge 
made bold to answer plainly. 

‘Well, it is raised, then. You shall have it 
doubled next quarter-day.’ 

‘ Thank you, sir,’ Windridge answered quietly. ‘ I 
had better go to the Manor now, then. It may be 
late before I return. If I am not detained with Mr. 
Hardwicke, I shall ride on to Keswick.’ 

‘ Keswick, eh ? That’s where those girls have 
gone. Keeping school there, I’m told, and not very 
successfully. Still hankering after her, eh ? Do you 
think she could keep house on a hundred and twenty ? 
Would you rush into matrimony on that ? Misery, 
Windridge, abject misery ! that’s what it would be.’ 

‘You need not advise me, Dr. Prescott. I am 
not a man likely to ask any woman to share my 
poverty. A man can bear it for himself, but he has 
no right to drag a woman down with him.’ 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


* 5 ° 

‘ You’re improving, gathering wit with your years/ 
said the old man, nodding. ‘If these are your 
sentiments, what’s the use of running after the girl ? 
It won’t help you to be more contented, especially 
if you find her down-hearted.’ 

Windridge smiled. He could not fancy Miriam 
down-hearted. She had pride enough to make a 
good and brave appearance before the world whatever 
heart-sickness and humiliation she might privately 
endure. He had heard various rumours about the 
Cheynes lately, all in the same tone. Evidently 
their venture was not going to succeed, whatever 
might be the cause. He had not been in Keswick 
since the beginning of summer ; he did not feel it to 
be a good thing for him to see Miriam very, often. 
Dr. Prescott let him off without any more personal 
remarks, but sat thinking of him long after he 
had heard the click of the hoofs die away in the 
distance. Had Windridge been apprised of the 
nature of these thoughts, he would have been 
considerably astonished. 

The young surgeon was curious about Hardwicke 
Manor, which he had never seen except from a 
distance. It stood on the slope of a richly-wooded 


PERPLEXITIES. 


151 

knoll, about two miles north from Grasmere, and was 
approached by a long avenue leading through magnifi- 
cent old trees which made the honour and glory of 
the place. Upth waite Hall had been the original 
name, and it had pertained to a noble family who 
had been compelled through reverses of fortune to 
sell the unentailed portion of their heritage. Mr. 
Hardwicke had rechristened it and otherwise altered 
it to please himself. The mansion was a fine solid 
pile of the Tudor period, and had a massive, imposing 
appearance when suddenly revealed to the gaze of 
the approaching visitor. Mr. Hardwicke kept up 
great style at the Manor. A footman in sober 
brown livery admitted the surgeon, and leading him 
through the fine old hall, ushered him into the 
library, pompously announcing him by name at the 
door. The sombre room was only dimly lighted by 
one hanging light above the mantel, but a cheerful 
fire was burning in the quaint brass grate, and before 
it sat the squire attired in a dressing-gown and 
smoking-cap of very large pattern and brilliant hue. 

* Ah, Windridge, it’s you ! Good evening ; glad 
to see you. Brin die, some fruit and biscuits here,’ 
he called peremptorily after the retreating footman. 


152 DORIS CHEYNE. 

‘ You won’t take anything? Oh, nonsense! Briug 
some grapes, Brindle ! You know what sort. Sit 
down, sit down, Doctor; very glad to see you.’ 

The squire’s greeting was hearty to effusiveness ; 
it astonished the surgeon not a little. 

He sat down in a luxurious velvet-covered easy- 
chair, privately wondering what could be the matter 
with the squire. His eye was clear, his face as 
ruddy and well-favoured as usual. 

‘ Want to know what you’re sent for, eh ? ’ asked 
Mr. Hardwicke presently. * I’m a little out of sorts. 
Haven’t been well all summer. I consulted Prescott 
some months ago, and he advised me to drink port. 
Stuff and nonsense ! Wine don’t suit my stomach, 
never did. Pact is, I think Prescott’s rather anti- 
quated, and I hear so much of your cleverness that 
I wanted to consult you.’ 

The surgeon proceeded to ask Mr. Hardwicke 
several questions regarding his state of health, and 
assured him there was nothing seriously wrong. 
When the professional talk was at an end, Mr. 
Hardwicke wheeled round his chair to the table, and 
prepared for a friendly chat. 

‘ Come, Dr. Windridge, make yourself at home. 


PERPLEXITIES. 


153 


No time to stay ? Oh, nonsense ! ’ he said heartily. 
* You might take pity on a fellow who is lonely enough 
here. Have you any more patients to see to-night ? ’ 
4 No urgent case/ Windridge answered. 

4 Any particular engagement ? * 

4 No/ 

‘ Then here you stay/ said the squire. * Try the 
cakes ; and how is the world using you ? * 

Windridge could not understand the squire’s 
affability and heartiness. He had known him slightly 
since the first time of his coming to Grasmere, and 
had not been accustomed to receive any special 
courtesy at his hands. We may know the secret. 
Doris Cheyne had let fall a chance word one evening 
when Mr. Hardwicke had been spending an hour at 
Sunbury Villa, which had made him resolve to know 
more of young Windridge. 

‘ No word of Prescott retiring in your favour yet, eh?’ 
4 1 do not think he has any present intention of 
it/ Windridge answered guardedly. He knew Mr. 
Hardwicke’s gossiping tongue, and did not intend to 
give him anything to lay to his charge. 

4 It isn’t easy to convince old boys that they are 
behind the age/ said Mr. Hardwicke. 4 But it’s in 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


154 

everybody’s mouth that he ought to give way to you. 
Has he promised to give you the practice ? ’ 

Windridge coloured slightly, resenting this question- 
ing on matters purely personal. 

‘We have never talked it over definitely, Mr. 
Hardwicke, but I believe I am right in thinking 
Dr. Prescott would not put the practice past me. I 
do not trouble myself about it,’ he answered quietly. 
He did not know very well how to speak, and it 
was impossible altogether to evade the questions. 

Mr. Hardwicke nodded his head two or three times 
in a slow, knowing fashion. 

4 Quite so ; but unless you have it in black and white 
you’re not safe, sir,’ he said. ‘ While you are working 
on and wearing yourself out for him, he may quietly 
sell the thing to some one else. He’s rather a near old 
chap, I’m told, and there’s no gratitude under the sun.’ 

‘ If you will excuse me, Mr. Hardwicke, I would 
much rather not discuss my employer and his affairs. 
I have no right to do so, even if I had a desire, 
which I have not,’ said Windridge in his plain, 
straightforward way. 

‘ I admire you for that, but this is in confidence, 
and in a purely friendly spirit,’ said Mr. Hardwicke. 


PERPLEXITIES. 


1 55 

‘ So please let me ask another question. Has it 
never occurred to you to begin on your own account 
in Grasmere ? You know well enough the whole 
concern is yours if you like/ 

Again Windridge reddened. 

* I can with truth say no such idea has ever 
occurred to me, Mr. Hardwicke,’ he answered stiffly. 
* While Dr. Prescott lives, I shall never practise in 
opposition in Grasmere/ 

4 Why not ? How has he treated you ? Isn’t he 
the very man who would take a mean advantage ? 
Besides, there would be nothing mean in what you 
would do. It is fair enough/ 

* I don’t see it in that light, sir. As Dr. Pres- 
cott’s assistant, I have won, perhaps, the confidence 
of the people. It would certainly be a mean and 
dishonourable thing to use the advantages he had 
given me for my own ends. I would rather not talk 
of this, if you please, Mr. Hardwicke/ 

Mr. Hardwicke drew his chair closer to that of 
the surgeon, and patted his knee as if to enforce his 
attention. He had something to say, and would say 
it, in spite of Windridge’s protest. 

‘Dr. Windridge, I am speaking to you as a 


156 DORIS CHEYNE. 

friend/ he said impressively. ‘ Bear with me a little 
yet. You are interested, I think, in the family of 
poor Robert Cheyne ; so am 1 / 

Windridge was now too much surprised to speak. 

‘ Don’t you see, if you had a practice of your own 
in Grasmere, you could marry Miriam at once/ 
continued Mr. Hardwicke rapidly. ‘ They are not 
succeeding in the school, poor things. They are to 
be pitied, they are indeed/ 

Windridge had nothing to say ; Mr. Hardwicke 
was altogether too much for him. 

‘ I’ll stand by you, and there isn’t a person possessed 
of the slightest common sense who won’t approve 
of what you do. Prescott has made his own out of 
the folk, and done them mighty little good, I believe. 
It’s somebody else’s turn now ; why not yours ? ’ 

‘ I have repeatedly heard that the ladies are not 
succeeding in Keswick/ said Windridge, choosing to 
ignore Mr. Hardwicke’s urgent pleading. ‘ I am 
very sorry to hear you confirm it/ 

‘ Ay, ay, it’s too true. Fact is, they have been 
brought up idle, and they can’t work ; they can’t do 
it, sir, however much they try. Miriam has the 
pride of a duchess, Windridge. She won’t stoop to 


PERPLEXITIES. 


*57 

conciliate the people, and so they won’t employ her. 
People won’t pay for proud, scornful looks and 
condescending behaviour such as she shows, and she 
can’t help it,’ said Mr. Hardwicke, and then an in- 
definable change came up on his face. It grew grave 
and even tender in its expression. ‘ If it weren’t for 
Miss Doris, poor girl, I don’t know where they would 
all have been. The way she slaves, and thinks, and 
loves ’em all is a perfect sight to see. There never 
was such a girl, and never will be ; but she’ll have her 
reward — not from them, mark you. There ain’t one 
of them can appreciate her ; hut when she comes here, 
she’ll have her ease, or my name ain’t Hardwicke.’ 

‘ Is she coming here ? ’ Windridge asked lamely. 
He was being talked at so much, that it was difficult 
for him to gather his thoughts sufficiently to make 
an intelligent remark. 

‘ I hope and trust so ; yes, I think she is — there, 
it’s out now,’ said Mr. Hardwicke, with a sly twinkle ; 
‘ and as we’re both seeking mates from the same nest, 
we’re bound to be friendly, aren’t we ? Let us shake 
hands upon it.’ 

Before Windridge could demur, his hand was being 
affectionately clasped in Mr. Hardwicke’s spacious palm. 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


153 

‘No, there never was such a girl/ repeated Mr. 
Hardwicke, bringing his hand down on the table 
with a thump. * She’s worth the whole lot, if you’ll 
excuse me saying it. Of course you think the same 
of yours. Maybe you’re astonished at my choice. 
I grant I’m older than she is ; but what’s the odds ? 
I’ll take better care of her. She’ll have an easier 
time of it than she’d have with any young man.’ 

‘Then Miss Doris is your affianced wife, Mr. 
Hardwicke ? ’ said Windridge inquiringly. 

‘ Well, she hasn’t said so in so many words, you 
know ; but her mother says it’s all right, and it’ll be 
settled fair and square one of these days when I’m 
able to ride over.’ 

‘ I wish you every happiness, sir/ said Windridge 
sincerely enough ; but somehow his heart ached for 
the girl of whom they spoke. Had a few months’ 
poverty and care so changed her, that she could 
resolve to pass her life with this man, with whom 
she could not have even one thought in common ? 

The idea saddened Windridge. It weighed upon 
his heart. He felt as if a dear sister were about to 
take a step of which he could not approve. 

It need not be wondered that he left Hardwicke 
Manor that night in rather a perplexed frame of mind. 



CHAPTER X. 

AN UNPLEASANT SUKPKISE. 

‘For Thine own purpose Tliou hast sent 
The strife and the discouragement.* 

Longfellow. 

RIS, my dear, I want you to write a letter 
for me/ 

* Just now, mamma ? * 

1 When you are ready, dear. Are you very busy ? ’ 
‘ I can be ready in a few minutes, mother ; school 
will be out in half an hour, and the dinner is almost 
done/ 

* Very well, my dear/ 

Mrs. Cheyne leaned back in her comfortable chair 
and closed her eyes. Doris went to the kitchen, put 
the potatoes on the fire, and made herself tidy before 
she rejoined her mother. Doris had a great deal to 
do. It was often three o’clock before she could 

159 



i6o 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


change her morning - dress ; then Mrs. Cheyne felt 
herself aggrieved, and complained of her daughter’s 
appearance. Yet she never lent a helping hand. 
The other three were busy in the school-rooms, for, 
having had no practical experience, they had no idea 
how to economize time and labour. Therefore it 
required three to do what one might have done with- 
out being overtaxed. Certainly there was accommo- 
dation for a much larger number of scholars than 
attended the school kept by the Misses Cheyne. 

It was uphill, disheartening, dreary work. At 
that time Miriam Cheyne was not the most pleasant 
person to live with. She was like an eagle pent in 
a cage — fretting her proud heart until it well-nigh 
broke. Josephine was discontented in a less degree; 
Kitty did the best she could, and hoped for better 
things. Mrs. Cheyne spent the best part of her time 
in her own snug room, devouring novels from the cir- 
culating library, and complaining of nervous headache 
and prostration. They had to be gentle with her, 
in order to spare themselves the burden of her 
reproaches about the happy past and the painful 
present. She frequently alluded to herself as a 
burden, but made no effort to become a help. Doris 


AN UNPLEASANT S UPPPISE. 1 6 1 

was sorely tried in those days. She had the look of 
one weighed down -by many cares. She knew that 
the present state of things could not go on. She 
saw signs in Miriam which warned her — symptoms 
of restlessness which would take action ere long. 
She did not know what was to become of them. She 
tried to be brave and hopeful ; she uplifted her heart 
many times to the great Helper, and she laboured 
with all her might. I am afraid to tell you all those 
loving, useful hands of hers accomplished — what a 
weight of physical toil that slender frame daily bore 
without a murmur. It had told upon her, however. 
It was seen in her face, in the shadow dwelling deeply 
in her large eyes ; her hands were rough and red and 
broadened now, not without cause. Life seemed a 
mystery of trial to Doris. She endeavoured to trust, 
but did not find it easy. Ho doubt that hard time 
had its uses, its purpose to fulfil in her, which perhaps 
she might recognise some day from a happy distance. 
But it was all dark yet. 

4 It is to Mr. Hardwicke I wish you to write, dear/ 
said Mrs. Cheyne, when Doris re-entered the room. 
‘He has been ill. It is but right we should ask 

after his welfare. He has been a kind friend to us.’ 

14 


162 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


‘Very well, mother,’ answered Doris; and, lifting 
the Japanese table into the window recess, she set 
the writing materials upon it. ‘ What shall I 
say?’ 

‘ Oh, just write • a kind note asking how he is. 
Say we hope to see him very soon — that we miss his 
visits.’ 

‘Very well, mother,’ repeated Doris, and took the 
pen in her hand. 

‘Dear Mr. Hardwicke,’ she began, and then 
paused, reluctant — she could not tell why — to go oil 

‘ Mamma, couldn’t you write yourself, if I brought 
the table to your side ? ’ she asked ; ‘ I do not know 
what to say.’ 

‘ Nonsense ; say something I have told you already. 
My head is very bad this morning. The room spins 
round me,’ returned Mrs. Cheyne, determined that 
Doris should write. 

Doris looked out of the window meditatively for a 
few minutes. It was not a cheerful prospect. Rain 
was falling heavily, and a mist hung over Derwent- 
water like a pall. It was a depressing day, grey and 
cheerless — something like Doris’s life just then. 


AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE . 163 

She sighed slightly, and then bending her eyes on 
the paper, hastily wrote a few lines. 

* Will this do, mother ? * she asked, and proceeded 
to read as follows : — 

‘Dear Mr. Hardwicke, — Mother requests me to 
write and ask how you are. We were sorry to hear 
of your indisposition. She hopes to see you very 
soon again. She is not quite well to-day, or she 
would have written herself. She sends her kind 
regards, and, — I am, yours truly, 

‘Doris Cheyne/ 

* Yes, that will do/ said Mrs. Cheyne, not quite 
pleased, it is true, but too wary to say so to Doris. 
Things were coming to a crisis, Mrs. Cheyne felt, and 
the affair must be settled somehow with Mr. Hard- 
wicke. It was even more imperative now than it 
had ever been, that Doris should see her clear duty 
in this matter. He had been most kind and attentive 
to them all, sending game and fruit and flowers in 
season from the Manor ; but though Doris was always 
frank and cordial enough to him when he came, Mrs. 
Cheyne knew right well that not one step had been 
advanced with her. She was rather perplexed about 


1 64 DORIS CUEYNE. 

the issue. Mr. Hardwicke was growing impatient. 
He had long wished to speak openly to Doris. The 
wily mother knew she could not keep him back 
much longer. She meditated making another strong 
appeal to Doris’s sense of duty, to throw herself, as it 
were, on the girl’s mercy. It was the last resource 
for her selfishness. Her own ease and comfort were 
her chief concerns, to be secured at any cost. 

Doris wrote the letter then, and after dinner took 
it out herself to post. It still rained, but it was a 
gentle rain unaccompanied by wind. Doris liked it ; 
the soft monotonous drip of the drops seemed to be 
in unison with her own sober thoughts. When she 
had posted the letter, she turned down one of the 
side streets which led to the lake. She was not 
in a hurry to go home. She was thinking deeply, 
anxiously, perplexedly of their affairs. Miriam had 
talked with unrestrained bitterness at the table, 
had indeed plainly said she was sick of the drudgery 
of school, and would not continue it long. Doris 
pondered how she could help, and by what means she 
could earn a little money for the common good. By 
the labour of her hands during the past nine months 
she had undoubtedly saved money, though she had 


AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE. 165 

earned none ; but unless the numbers at school were 
augmented, or money came from some other source, 
they could not pay the present high rent, and obtain 
even the plainest food and clothing. These things 
were before Doris, problems for which she must 
find a solution somewhere. She walked slowly to 
and fro by the side of the grey lake, watching its 
little wavelets breaking sullenly on the pebbly shore. 
They gave forth a monotonous sound, the rain-drops 
plashed with dreary regularity in the water; the 
whole aspect of water, sky, and shore was depressing 
in the extreme. Doris felt very much alone, her 
hard struggle had been unaided, unappreciated, 
apparently unseen by any eye but God’s. But for 
that certain faith Doris must have sunk, her need of 
sympathy, her craving for love was so intense. Poor 
girl, life was indeed bitterly changed. A year ago 
she had known nothing of care, she had been blessed 
with a love which satisfied her heart, she had been 
indifferent to everything in the world except that 
love. 

And now she was face to face wich the naked 
reality of life ; she was compelled to find ways and 
means to procure even its necessaries. That solitary 


i66 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


walk did Doris good. She was always the better and 
braver for a quiet communing with herself. Her 
heart sank often under her mother’s fretful com- 
plaining and her sisters’ perpetual grumblings. She 
had sometimes to steal away to still the rebellion 
rising in her heart. But the question what was to 
become of them was still unanswered. 

Next afternoon, when Mrs. Cheyne happened to be 
out shopping, a groom from Hardwicke Manor rode 
up to the gate. He had a basket over his arm, and 
when Doris opened the door he took a letter from his 
breast-pocket and presented both to her with a touch 
of his hat. 

Doris thanked him, inquired after his master’s 
health in a quiet, unembarrassed manner, and then 
bade him good -day. When she was indoors she 
looked into the basket and smiled at its contents, 
thinking of her mother’s satisfaction. It contained 
fruit and flowers of the choicest kinds, there being 
splendid hothouses at the Manor. Sometimes Doris 
wished the squire would not send so many gift*, and 
she wondered that her mother should always exhibit 
such eagerness about them. There was a touch of 
greed in Mrs. Cheyne’s nature, and she had none of 


AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE. 167 

that independence which makes a proud spirit resent 
benefits bestowed by one in affluent circumstances. 
Doris, however, felt it ; but seeing how the delicacies 
pleased her mother, she tried to be pleased too, and 
to think it only kind and natural in Mr. Hardwicke, 
being an old acquaintance of her father’s. 

She took out the flowers, and being touched by 
their great beauty, and by memories they awakened 
of home, she pressed them to her lips without a 
thought of him who had sent them. She arranged 
them in a crystal dish, and carried them up to her 
mother’s table. She set the basket down beside it, and 
then opened her letter. To her astonishment, instead 
of a few words, it contained many closely-written 
lines. She began to read them, however, without the 
slightest hesitation or apprehension. Mr. Hardwicke 
expressed himself thus : — 

‘ Hardwicke Manor, Sept . 28. 

4 My Dear Miss Doris, — I am very much obliged 
to you for your kind note received this morning. It 
has made me very happy, and has given me courage 
to write this in reply. It is natural that I should 
think you have grown more accustomed to the 


i68 


DORIS CHE YNE. 


thought of me, or you would not have written so 
kindly. Dear Miss Doris, I have been very anxious 
for months, ever since I asked you to become my 
wife. But for your mother, I should have grown 
disheartened altogether. I made a great mistake 
in coming upon you so suddenly as I did then. I 
might havq known you could not have the slightest 
idea of my hopes. I could not have expected any 
other answer than that you gave me at the time. I 
have acted on your mother’s advice ; I have tried to 
prove to you how much in earnest I am, and I must 
say I have occasionally had hopes. You have at 
least not made me feel that I am distasteful to you. 
My dear, I know I am older than you, but I am 
sincerely attached to you. I have never seen any 
woman who has so impressed me with her goodness 
and common sense. I might run on at great length 
on this subject, but for fear of worrying you I shall 
desist. Dear Miss Doris, I know you are finding it 
a very uphill job at Keswick. It has made me 
wretched to see you toiling like a common servant. 
I could hardly restrain myself, only your mother 
begged me to be patient. She told me you required 
time to grow accustomed to any new idea ; that was 


AN UNPLEASANT SUPPPISE. 169 

your nature. I am sure she is right, for you have 
been very kind to me lately. I have been very 
patient, dear Miss Doris, considering how very much 
in earnest I am, but I really can’t wait any longer 
without having ay or no from your lips. I have 
often thought it might have been better if we had 
talked this over quietly last December, but your 
mother advised not. I did not mean to write at 
such a length. In case your patience should be 
quite exhausted, I will draw to a close. Before 
doing so I should like to say that if you will consent 
to become mistress of Hardwicke Manor, I shall see 
that you have not another care in the world. You 
have had enough, poor dear, to last you all your 
life. All I have is yours, and I am your respectful 
and attached, Josiah Hardwicke/ 

Doris folded up the letter, put it in her pocket, 
and went quietly down-stairs to attend to the cooking 
of the dinner. About a quarter of an hour later, 
Mrs. Cheyne came in. She went straight up-stairs, 
and seeing the fruit and flowers on her table, came 
out to the landing and called down to Doris, — 

‘ Is there no message from Mr. Hardwicke, Doris V 
15 


170 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


There was no reply for a few seconds ; then Doris 
came up-stairs. When Mrs. Cheyne saw her face — 
white still, strangely stern and cold — she felt that 
something had gone wrong. Doris shut the door 
upon her mother and herself, and took the letter 
from her pocket. 

‘Please read that, mother, and tell me what it 
means.* 

Mrs. Cheyne took the open sheet and hastily 
scanned the contents. As she did so, she made up 
her mind what course to take. She would be firm 
with Doris ; she would exercise a parent’s rights. 

‘ Well,’ she said defiantly, ‘ it means just what it 
says. What then ? ’ 

‘ Is it true, then, mother, that you have misled Mr. 
Hardwicke all these months ? — you have led him to 
believe that I was not in earnest with my first refusal 
of his offer.’ 

Mrs. Cheyne laid her gloves on the table and 
looked calmly at Doris. 

‘ Listen to me,’ she said. * I was not surprised at 
your refusing Mr. Hardwicke last year, because you 
were a raw, inexperienced girl, who really did not 
know the worth of what you were throwing away. 


AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE. 


171 

I said so to him. I asked him to wait a little, to try 
and impress you with his kindness, and then ask you 
again. He has done so ; what is there in that, pray, 
to make you look so angry ? * 

* He writes confidently. He anticipates my con- 
sent, mother/ Doris said in a low voice. * It is you 
who have encouraged him, not 1/ 

* I should think you ought to be grateful to me 
for that now. You have tried poverty. You have 
had your wish ; I have allowed you to do a servant’s 
work simply to cure you of your absurd folly. 
Have you enjoyed it then ? Has life been very 
bright for you here ? No ; I think not. You should 
be glad and grateful, Doris, that I was wiser than 
you. But for me, you would have had no second 
chance of such a splendid home/ 

* It can make no difference, mother/ Doris answered 
quietly. ‘ I feel now as I did then. Life is hard 
here, but it is preferable to what it would be as Mr. 
Hardwicke’s wife. I am grateful to him, because he 
is kind and sincere. I shall write to him to-night/ 

‘ That you accept him, my dear good girl. Think 
of your poor mother. What a blissful thing it would 
be for her!’ 


172 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


1 Not even for your sake, mother, will I wrong my- 
self and him. I respect him more than I did then. 
I will he true and honest with him this time. There 
shall be no mistake/ 

‘ Doris, you — you daren’t ! ’ cried Mrs. Cheyne 
wildly. * You are bound to him. Do you know he 
paid the money for this school, he bought the furniture 
for us, he has repeatedly given me a five-pound note, 
which I took, as he gave it, for your sake ? Doris, 
you must marry him, or I don’t know what will 
become of us. He could put us all in jail if he 
liked ; we owe him so much money.’ 

Such was the coin in which Mrs. Cheyne repaid 
Doris for her unselfish, uncomplaining toil. 




CHAPTER XL 

TRUE TO HERSELF. 

* I am weak, 

And cannot find the good I seek, 

Because I feel and fear the wrong.* 

Longfellow. 

the scholars were all gone, and the 
ng ladies came out of the schoolroom, 
7 were astonished to find no dinner 
ready for them. What was Doris thinking of to- 
day ? It was not usual for her to he behind time. 

Miriam went up to her mother’s room, and found 
her lying on the couch, exhibiting signs of nervous 
prostration. She had a handkerchief soaked in 
eau-de-Cologne lying on her forehead ; one hand held 
her smelling-salts to her nose, the other hung limply 
by her side. 

* Dear me, mamma, what has happened now ? * asked 

173 



i74 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


Miriam sharply, always cross when she came out 
of schooL ‘ Where is Doris ? Are we to have 
nothing to eat to-day ? * 

* Don’t ask me, I don’t know anything about 
Doris, or any other thing. Leave me alone. If 
only I might die and be laid beside my Robert, I 
should at least be at peace.’ 

Here Mrs. Cheyne wept, and applied the scented 
handkerchief to her eyes. Miriam looked impatient. 
She could scarcely tolerate her mother’s silly exhibi- 
tions, knowing perfectly well that they were only 
assumed for effect. Mrs. Cheyne was a woman 
strong-minded enough in the main, and who never 
failed to gain every point she desired by an 
assumption of weakness and dependence on others. 
Unfortunately she is the representative of a large 
class of women; we can all number at least one of 
them among our acquaintances. 

Miriam observed the gifts that had come from the 
Manor, just as Josephine and Kitty entered the 
room. 

* Has Mr. Hardwicke been here ? ’ she asked, a 
light beginning to dawn upon her. 

Ho.’ Mrs. Cheyne raised herself on her elbow 


TRUE TO HERSELF. 


*75 

and looked round the room. * Is there a letter 
lying anywhere about ? * 

The girls looked for it, but in vaia 
Doris had been careful to replace it in her pocket. 
It was her property* and she had an immediate use 
for it. 

‘She must have taken it away. You all think 
Doris a model of kindness and unselfishness, girls, 
but let me tell you she is ungrateful and hard at 
heart. She has grieved me very much this morning. 
I do not know how I shall be able to forgive her/ 

‘ Please tell us what has happened, mamma/ said 
Miriam in her cool, peremptory fashion. ‘ It is very 
unsatisfactory to listen to these vague statements/ 
‘Give me time. I won’t be hurried. It upsets 
my nerves so/ said Mrs. Cheyne pathetically. 
‘ Well, you see Mr. Hardwicke’s usual tokens of 
kindness; a letter accompanied them to-day. The 
footman brought it. It was for Doris/ 

Miriam looked concerned and apprehensive. She 
alone knew the extent of their obligation to Mr. 
Hardwicke. Josephine and Kitty looked interested, 
as girls always do when any love or matrimonial 
affair has to be discussed. 


176 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


‘Well ? ’ asked Miriam quickly. 

‘ It contained a repetition of his offer to marry her, 
and I must say a more touching and earnest letter 
I never read.’ 

‘ What did Doris say ? * 

Mrs. Cheyne wept afresh. 

‘ She said a great many unbecoming things, I am 
sorry to say. She quite forgot her filial duty. She 
accused me, I think, of deceiving her and Mr. 
Hardwicke, and, I believe, the whole world. She 
quite overwhelmed me with her foolish indignation. 
And she will have nothing whatever to say to Mr. 
Hardwicke.’ 

Miriam grew pale. This was complication upon 
complication. Until then she did not know how 
much she had been depending on Doris becoming 
the wife of Mr. Hardwicke. She had looked 
forward to it as a sure ending to the degrading 
worries of their present life. Miriam was ashamed 
of their poverty, it was a humiliation for her to teach 
school ; she saw things in a different light from Doris. 

Doris thought nothing degrading so long as she 
could keep her own self-respect She would never 
lose it by marrying Mr. Hardwicke. 


TRUE TO HERSELF 


177 

* Then what is to be done ? ’ Miriam ashed 
quietly. She could not say very much before 
Josephine and Kitty, who knew nothing of the 
money - lending episode. Miriam herself did not 
know about the five -pound notes to which Mrs. 
Cheyne had so rashly alluded. It is probable she 
would have resented that. 

‘ Nothing can be done. We must just go to the 
workhouse/ said Mrs. Cheyne resignedly. 4 There is 
no use hoping that Doris will ever become convinced 
of her duty/ 

‘ Where is she ? * asked Kitty sympathetically. 
She was on Doris’s side, but feared to say so. 

‘ I don’t know, nor do I care at present ; I have 
no wish to see her/ said Mrs. Cheyne resignedly. 
‘ Ingratitude in a child can sour even a mothers 
affections/ 

‘Oh, mamma, Doris has been a dear, good girl. 
Think how she has laboured for us all/ cried Kitty, 
rather indignantly. ‘ It is a shame to turn against 
her, just because she won’t marry that old man ’ 

* Hold your tongue, child ; you have not common 
sense/ retorted Mrs. Cheyne sharply. ‘Doris will 
likely be locked in her own room. She can stay 


178 


BORIS CHEYNE. 


there as long as she pleases. I forbid any of you 
to go near her. She must be made to feel that she 
has isolated herself from us. Not one of you, I am 
sure, would have failed me in this crisis as she has 
done.’ 

Kitty could not forbear giving her shoulders a 
little shrug. She knew very well what her answer 
would have been had Mr. Hardwicke wished to 
marry her. By and by, forgetful of her mother’s 
stern injunction, she slipped along the corridor to 
her sister’s room to give her a w T ord of sisterly 
sympathy and comfort. But, lo ! instead of a 
locked door it was wide open, and Doris was not 
within. Kitty took the trouble to look in the 
wardrobe, and observed Doris’s hat and jacket were 
gone too. Doris was not in the house. 

She did not wonder very much at it, however, 
knowing Doris’s •penchant for solitary strolls. It 
was but natural she should be glad to escape from 
the house, to think over this unfortunate occurrence 
in the freedom of the open air. 

.We may now follow Doris. When she left her 
mother’s presence, she went up stairs to her own 
room, and put on her walking garb. She also, took 


TRUE TO HERSELF. 


179 


an umbrella and a waterproof with her, left the 
house, and turned her face southwards to Grasmere. 

There was no haste or nervousness in the manner 

♦ 

of her actions ; all was done quietly, and evidently 
with a settled resolve. 

It was scarcely three o’clock when she set out 
upon her walk, and it was a fine clear afternoon 
with a brilliant sunshine. It had been showery in 
the morning, and there were some watery clouds 
still on the horizon. Doris noted them with 
rather an anxious eye; she even tried to cal- 
culate how long they might take to overcast the 
sky. It is curious sometimes in our moments of 
strong feeling, even of keen" suffering, we are very 
particular and minute in our observations, and even 
performance of little things. Doris was feeling 
strongly enough, and suffering keenly too ; she was 
deeply hurt. But the weather was of some moment 
to her ; she had a long walk before her. Her 
destination was Hardwicke Manor, nearly ten miles 
distant. But Doris was a good walker, and thought 
nothing of the distance. She tried not to think loo 
much of what awaited her at the end of it. She did 
not wish to plan any action or speech beforehand ; 


1 80 DORIS CHE YNE. 

she simply wished to see Mr. Hardwicke, and tell 
him the truth herself. Too much mischief had 
already been wrought by the action of a third person. 
The money-lending troubled Doris ; it made hei 
cheeks burn with shame to think that her mothei 
had been willing, nay, had tried to exchange her for 
Mr. Hardwicke’s money. It was nothing less. 

It was half-past three when Doris stood on the crest 
of the hill above Keswick, and turned to look back 
upon the town. It looked lovely in the warm after- 
noon sunshine, with Derwentwater bathed in a flood of 
golden light, and Bassenthwaite lying darkly under 
the purple shadow of Skiddaw. Doris was quite 
conscious of the exceeding beauty of the picture, but 
it did not touch her heart. She had no home in 
Keswick. Dear heart, she thought, desolately at 
that moment, that no human being could be more 
utterly alone upon the earth than she. But as she 
walked briskly and determinedly on, she was con- 
scious of growing more light-hearted ; the delightful, 
healthful physical exertion acted upon mind and 
heart. There was much beauty surrounding her; 
a wealth of autumn colouring, of harvestfulness, 
a sense of promise fulfilled, seemed to be in the 






DERWENTWATER FR03I BCAFELL. 


181 



























TRUE TO HERSELF. 183 

scent-laden air. The hedgerows had scarcely begun 
to change their hue, though the leaves were brown 
and yellow on the trees, and there was no hint of 
winter barrenness and storm. 

About three miles on her way, Doris met the 
afternoon coach on its way to Keswick. Only one 
passenger was within, she noticed, for the tourist 
season was almost past. A little way farther she 
met a group of anglers returning from their sport 
among the mountain tarns, and then for miles she 
encountered no living thing; but was alone amid the 
solemn stillness which reigns for ever among the 
hills; but no sense of fear or even of isolation 
oppressed her. The silence soothed her, the wild 
wide freedom of the solitudes was like a friend ; she 
felt at home, even at peace. 

The sun was setting in a clear, amber sky when 
Doris skirted the shores of picturesque Thirlmere. 
She could have lingered to watch the wonderful 
shafts of red and gold on the rippling water, but that 
she had begun to think about the return journey. 
Although she was not afraid, it might not be safe 
to walk alone through these wilds by night, even 
though a harvest-moon should be lit to guide her 


184 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


ste£s. Twilight would be closing in before she 
reached the Manor. She quickened her steps as she 
approached Wytheburn, and only briefly acknow- 
ledged the pleasant good- evening accorded her by 
the portly host of the ‘ Nag’s Head.’ Already a 
warning darkness rested on the mighty brow of 
Helvellyn, even though the golden sun - shafts lay 
athwart its buttresses. 

The bell in the stable tower at Hardwicke Manor 
was ringing six when Doris passed through the stone 
gateway and hurried up the avenue to the house. 
She felt slightly nervous now, her errand being a 
painful one. The thought that her action was unusual 
and strange in a young girl did not trouble her. She 
was too much in earnest to think of little things. 

Mr. Hardwicke was at home, the footman said, 
and a most extraordinary expression came on his 
face when he recognised the young lady. He was 
so surprised that for a moment he forgot his 
customary politeness and dignity. However, he 
recovered himself under Miss Cheyne’s quiet look of 
inquiry, and with a murmured apology took her up 
to the drawing-room. 

Doris was not given to taking inventories of 


TRUE TO HERSELF. 185 

furniture and things in other people’s houses, but 
she could not help being struck by the magnificence 
of the lofty room into which she was shown. It 
was furnished with taste too, and had a subdued and 
pleasing effect on the eye. The thought that this 
fine mansion and all within its walls was virtually 
lying at her feet did not occur to her. Her one 
idea and consuming desire was to come to a clear 
understanding with Mr. Hardwicke, to tell him that 
she had had no hand in the deception her mother 
had practised upon him. 

She did not sit down. She was standing by a 
low marble table near the door when Mr. Hardwicke 
came in. He looked very nervous; he shut the 
door, and looked at her rather doubtfully. He knew 
this proceeding of Doris’s was not prudent, that few 
young ladies would have ventured upon it. He did 
not know what it portended. Doris did not keep 
him in suspense. She did not even wait for a 
word of greeting from him ; she simply opened out 
his own letter, which he recognised, and lifted her 
large, clear eyes to his face. 

*1 have come to speak to you, Mr. Hardwicke, 

about this letter,’ she said quietly. 

16 


i86 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


1 Yes, yes, my dear Miss Doris/ he said hurriedly. 
* I — I hope it did not vex or annoy you. I did 
not intend it to do so, I assure you. But how have 
you come ? Is — is your mother with you ? * 

* No, my mother is not with me, I am alone/ said 
Doris in clear, cold tones. 

* Mr. Hardwicke, my mother has misled you 
about this matter. When it was spoken about last 
December, I saw then that it could never be — that 
there never could be any answer but that one. I — 
I am afraid you did not quite understand that, 
though my mother knew very well I had undergone 
no change. When I read your letter to-day, and 
understood it, I came off at once. I could not bear 
to wait another moment, and I was determined that 
there should be no mistake this time, so I walked 
off at once/ 

‘ Walked from Keswick, bless my heart and 
soul ! * exclaimed Mr. Hardwicke. * Poor dear, a 
letter would have done very well. Don’t look 
distressed, Miss Doris, on my account. I daresay I 
was a foolish, silly old man to dream of such a thing. 
I was in earnest, my dear, but I would not seek 
you against your will/ 


TRUE TO HERSELF? 187 

His tone was so truly kind that Doris felt her 
eyes fill. But she strove to be calm, having some- 
thing further to say. 

* There is another thing, Mr. Hardwicke,’ she 
said, with a slight falter in her voice. * I only 
learned to-day for the first time that you had lent 
money to mamma for the purchase of the school, 
and — and other things. It humiliated me very 
much to know that it Was on my account, on the 
understanding that I was to become your wife. Mr. 
Hardwicke, I knew nothing about it, and I have 
come to-day to ask you to let that money be my 
debt. It may be a long time before I can pay it 
back, but I will pay it, Mr. Hardwicke, indeed I will, 
some day, if you will only wait/ 

‘ Your debt, my poor, dear girl ? Bless my heart 
and soul ! ’ 

Mr. Hardwicke was genuinely affected; to see 
that young, slim creature standing there, with her 
large, pathetic eyes and her solemn, earnest face, 
asking him to let her earn money to pay him back 
a few paltry hundreds, was more than he could bear. 
And he would willingly have given her all he had 
if she would only take it. 


i88 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


‘ Yes, my debt, if you please,’ said Doris, gaining 
strength. 4 If you would please to give me a piece 
of paper with the amount written upon it, I should 
keep it, and give you an acknowledgment.’ 

* Miss Doris, I won’t do it ; not a word, I won’t 
do it ; there now ! * 

Mr. Hardwicke brought his hand down on the 
table with a crash. 

4 1 tell you what I’ll do, though. I’ll write the 
amount on a piece of paper, and then I’ll cancel it 
and write my name at the foot,’ he said ; and his 
plain face beamed with the generous purpose that 
had touched his heart. 

* Miss Doris, I was a fool to dream that I could 
ever win you for my wife. It’ll be some noble 
young fellow who’ll do that, and I wish him happi- 
ness and success wherever or whoever he may , be. 
Let’s bury it all. Let’s forget everything ; but that 
I knew you when you were in pinafores, and used to 
sit before your father’s saddle when he rode over 
here. Not a word, my dear. You’ve taught me 
something. You’ve shown me that there are things 
better than money in this world. I’m in your debt, 
my dear, deeper than ever I’ll be able to pay. You 


TRUE TO HERSELF. 189 

don’t know what you’ve taught me. I’ve watched 
you, and I’ve been a better man ever since a thought 
of you filled my heart. And you walked ten miles 
to be fair and square with me ! Ay, ay, I won’t 
forget that ; but we’ll bury the other for ever and he 
friends. Will you shake hands upon it ? ’ 

Doris was driven home to Keswick that night in 
the carriage from Hardwicke Manor. 




CHAPTER XIL 

AT AN END. 

•The sun has hid his rays 
These many days. 

Will dreary hours never leave the earth? 

0 doubting heart 1 * 

Adelaide Proctor. 

AMMA, do you know Doris has not 
come in yet ? * said Kitty, entering her 
mother’s room about half-past eight that 
evening. Her face wore a concerned look ; she was 
alarmed about Doris. 

* Hot in yet ? I did not even know she was out. 
Where has she gone ? * 

Mrs. Cheyne was nursing her headache and her 
wrath by the fireside, and was not in an amiable 
mood. 

Miriam was in her own room poring over the 
pages of a book which she did not choose that the 

190 



AT AN END. 


igi 

others should see. The title was, Hints to those 
Contemplating the Stage as a Means of Livelihood. 

Josephine had already gone to bed. 

4 1 do not know where she is, mamma ; I wish I 
did. She has been out since three o’clock. I went 
to see if her door was locked then, and found she 
had gone out.’ 

‘ Where on earth can she be, then ? * asked Mrs. 
Cheyne fretfully, but without alarm. ‘It is not 
seemly for a girl like Doris to be wandering 
about the streets or roads so much alone. It 
will hurt us in the town. But she has absolutely 
no consideration in the world for anybody but 
herself.’ 

* Mamma, did she seem excited or anything when 
you spoke to her ? ’ asked Kitty fearfully. A great 
unspoken dread filled her heart. She thought of 
Derwentwater, and shuddered. 

‘No, she was not excited; she never is excited. 
That’s why she is so aggravating; she is so deep, 
one cannot fathom her. I am accustomed to wear 
my heart upon my sleeve, so to speak, and I do not 
profess to understand those who never let one get a 
glimpse of their feelings.’ 


192 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


Kitty sighed. She loved Doris with a great love. 
She did not quite understand the stillness and reserve 
of her nature, perhaps, but she knew her to be the 
best among them. Kitty had seen and silently 
reverenced Doris for her self-abnegation, her quiet 
but real and earnest thought and work for them all. 
And they were so ungrateful ! They had nothing 
for her but short words and indifferent or sour 
looks. 

* She must just come in when she gets rid of her 
sulks/ said Mrs. Cheyne. ‘ I am going to bed 
shortly. Sleep is the only solace for my cares. 
You will not sit up for Doris, Kitty. She must not 
think we are at all concerned about her. She must 
be made to feel that she is not of the first importance 
in the house/ 

* Yet I don’t see what in the world we should do 
without her/ said Kitty honestly. * We should never 
get anything to eat, and goodness knows what kind 
of a place the house would be. I don’t think we 
are half grateful enough for what she does. Mamma, 
when I see her poor hands rough and sore with 
scrubbing and cooking, I feel like a wretch, I do, 
I’m for no use in the world.’ 


AT AN END . 


i93 


Mrs. Cheyne languidly' closed her eyes. She 
would not discuss the subject any further. She 
was still very angry with Doris. I do not know 
that she would' ever really forgive her for refusing 
Mr. Hardwicke. The uses of adversity had not been 
sweet to Mrs. Cheyne ; change of fortunes had 
brought the grosser, more selfish traits of her 
character to the front. It is easy to he good and 
sweet and amiable when the sun of prosperity shines 
upon us ; it is the rain and the storm-clouds that 
determine the real worth of our nature. 

Kitty stood a few minutes irresolute, sorely 
perplexed. She was very anxious, seriously alarmed. 
She feared some harm had come to Doris. She 
marvelled that her mother did not share her fore- 
bodings. She felt cast upon her own resources. 
She did not know how to act. To go out of doors 
in search of Doris would be like setting out on a 
wild-goose chase. But still her thoughts reverted 
fearfully to Derwentwater. 

Suddenly there came the rattle of wheels upon 

the quiet street, then the stopping of a vehicle at 

the door. Kitty flew down-stairs, expecting she 

knew not what. She put up the gas in the hall, 
17 


J 94 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


and hastily opened the door, in time to see Doris 
step from a carriage which she could not fail to 
recognise. The prancing bays with the brass- 
mounted harness were Mr. Hardwicke’s. She could 
not be mistaken in them even had she not seen the 
familiar face of Cornwall, the fat coachman, and 
heard him say respectfully, — 

4 Good night, Miss Cheyne/ 

Next moment Doris was in the house. 

‘ Where have you been, Doris ? I have been 
nearly wild. I thought you were drowned/ 

* Drowned ! Oh, no ! * Doris kissed her sister, 
and even smiled as she looked into her eyes. 

‘ That was the Manor carriage, Doris. Where did 
you get into it ? * 

‘At the Manor. I have been there. Is mamma 
in her own room yet ? * 

* Yes, she is alone/ 

‘Well, come up with me, Kitty. I want to tell 
her where I have been/ 

Doris wound her arm round her sister’s waist, 
and they entered the room together. 

Then Doris quitted Kitty’s side, and walking over 
to the fireplace, stood directly before her mother. 


AT AN END. 


195 

She looked pale and worn, bnt her expression was 
calm, her manner perfectly self-possessed. 

‘ Will you look at me, mamma ? ’ she said quietly. 
‘ I have been at Hardwicke Manor/ 

‘ Where ? * 

Mrs. Cheyne’s voice was very shrill, and she sat 
bolt upright in her chair. 

‘I walked to Hardwicke Manor, mother, to see 
Mr. Hardwicke. We understand each other now. 
There can never be any mistake again/ 

4 You, what ? * Consternation sat on the counte- 
nance of Mrs. Cheyne. 

‘I have seen Mr. Hardwicke, and told him the 
truth. He knows now I can never be his wife. I 
shall never forget his kindness while I live/ repeated 
Doris quietly, and Kitty saw that she was moved. 

‘ Do you know what you have done, girl?’ asked Mrs. 
Cheyne, with the sternness of suppressed wrath. * You 
have laid yourself open to the scandal of the whole 
neighbourhood. Was it a maidenly, or even a decent 
thing to go there alone, and ask for Mr. Hardwicke ? * 
‘He was my father’s friend. He is mine now. 
I do not care what the people say. I am not 
conscious of having done wrong/ said Doris, but her 


196 DOEIS CHEYNE. 

colour rose. Mr. Hardwicke will come to-morrow, 
mother, to see you.’ 

So saying, Doris went out of the room. 

Peace had come hack to her in the still darkness 
of her drive between the Manor and Keswick, but 
how quickly it vanished under her mother’s dis- 
turbing touch ! Doris was very wretched as she 
knelt down by the open window in her own room, 
and laid her hot head on the cold stone. 

Kitty would fain have gone to her, but she had a 
vague consciousness that it might be better for Doris 
to be alone for a little. She had gone through a 
great deal that day. 

Doris was thoroughly disheartened and nearly 
overcome. To look back was a trial of patience, to 
look forward a trial of faith. She did not know 
how she was to continue under the same roof-tree 
with her mother, unless there were to be better 
relations between them. She had the approval of 
her conscience for the manner in which she had 
acted toward Mr. Hardwicke, but her heart was 
terribly sore. She loved her mother — how hard it 
was to be so coldly estranged from her ! She did 
not know how to conciliate or please her. Because 


AT AN END. 


1 9V 


she had opposed her desires in one instance, all 
other service was unacceptable in her eyes. Doris 
felt her cross heavy. It weighed upon her heart. 
She had so honestly striven to do the duty lying 
nearest to her, she had borne weakness and weariness, 
she had grudged no labour, no time nor thought, to 
make comfort for those at home. A little rebellion 
mingled with her downcast thoughts. She felt it 
hard that she should have so little sunshine upon the 
uphill path of duty. She felt that she could almost 
question the love and goodness of God. That hour 
was full of real bitterness and pain for Doris. She 
was bowed down to the ground. Looking forward, 
she could see no hope of brighter things ; the 
thought of the morrow, with its irksome round of 
homely duties, was repulsive to her. After a time, 
even the power of thought seemed to desert her. 
She sat crouched by the window-seat, with her head 
bent on her breast in an attitude of deep dejection. 
The window was open, and at length a feeling of 
intense physical cold roused her. Then she saw 
that her dress was quite wet. It had been raining 
for some time, and the night wind had been driving 
the drops in upon her. She rose hastily, and 


193 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


shutting the window, drew blind and curtains close, 
and lit her candle. Then she took off her wet gown, 
and with a shawl about her shoulders, sat down by 
the dressing-table and opened her text-book. It was 
her custom to read the verse for morning and even- 
ing regularly, and sometimes it helped her. 

‘ And he that taketh not his cross, and followeth 
after me, is not worthy of me/ 

That was the evening portion, and the words sank 
into the heart of Doris. She folded her arms on the 
table, and leaning her head upon them, asked once 
more fervently for aid to bear her cross. It seemed 
a very real and heavy one to the girl. Eemember 
she was not inured to tribulation. And after that 
prayer came strength and quietness of heart. She 
was no longer despairing and rebellious, but willing 
as before to go forward, doing the best she could. 
God does not send His angels to us now, indeed ; but 
His messengers, though unseen, and unfelt at times, 
are none the less present with us. Very often what 
is simple, and even weak, is made use of to aid the 
strong in the conflict of life. 

Before noon the next day Mr. Hardwicke rode 
into Keswick, and having put his horse up at * The 


AT AN END. 


199 


George/ walked to Sunbury Villa. Mrs. Cheyne was 
ready for him, and even opened the door to him 
herself. Doris had asked that she might not see 
Mr. Hardwicke when he came, and had therefore not 
appeared to answer his summons. 

* Good morning, ma’am/ the squire said, and there 
was a visible coolness in his manner which was not 
lost upon Mrs. Cheyne. She was stiff and dignified, 
she had even got the length of convincing herself 
that Mr. Hardwicke had injured her. There are no 
limits to a diseased imagination such as hers. Mr. 
Hardwicke had prepared quite a series of remarks 
of a strong nature to he addressed to Mrs. Cheyne, 
but he forgot them all, and when he found himself 
alone with her in the little sanctum where she had 
so often flattered his hopes, he just faced her quite 
suddenly, and with his favourite thump on the table, 
said, in a very emphatic manner, — 

* It was a shame, Mrs. Cheyne — a downright shame 
to do it to the poor girl ; and I don’t know how you, 
calling yourself a mother, could do it — there now ! * 

* You forget yourself, Mr. Hardwicke ! ’ said Mrs. 
Cheyne haughtily, and she could be very haughty 
when she pleased. 


200 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


‘No, I don’t; excuse me, I’m only remembering 
myself. I said to myself last night I’d give you a 
piece of my mind, and I will/ said the squire stoutly, 
and with a very red face. ‘Yes, it was a shame. 
When you knew the poor lamb did not care a straw 
for me, and never could marry me, you had no right 
to go on fooling us both, for it was nothing else.’ 

Mrs. Cheyne gasped. She had never had the 
truth so nakedly set before her in her life. 

‘ If it was for that paltry money, ma’am, you 
might have let me do it for you, for the sake of him 
that’s gone,’ said the squire. ‘Have you never 
thought, ma’am, how he’d like to see such treatment 
of Miss Doris ? She was the very apple of his 
eye.’ 

Mrs. Cheyne saw she had the worst of it, and 
immediately wept. The squire, having a soft corner 
in his heart, could not stand tears. Though he was 
rather suspicious of the genuineness of Mrs. Cheyne’s 
emotion, he felt his ire fast melting away, but he had 
said a few plain sentences which had considerably 
relieved his mind. 

‘ Now look here, Mrs. Cheyne,’ he said, in some- 
thing like his ordinary way; ‘would it not have 


AT AN END . 


201 


been a thousand times better to have told me the 
real state of your daughter’s feelings ? It was no 
kindness to her nor to me, and if you had succeeded 
in making a marriage of it, what kind of a pair 
would we have made ? I can tell you, ma’am, I am 
very thankful the thing’s been remedied before it 
was too late.’ 

‘ I was doing it for the best, Mr. Hardwicke,’ sobbed 
Mrs. Cheyne. * I thought I was forwarding her in- 
terests, and that she would thank me for it some day.’ 

‘If you say so, I’m bound to believe you, but 
marriages are ticklish things to deal with. It’s best 
for no third party to have a hand in it, then there 
can be no reflections. Well then, we needn’t say 
any more about what’s past ; but there’s one thing I 
must say, Mrs. Cheyne, and that is that I hope you 
won’t make any difference to Miss Doris about it. 
Be kinder to her even than you are to the rest. 
She needs it, poor child ; she misses her father very 
badly, I can see that well enough.’ 

Mrs. Cheyne preserved a discreet silence. She 
would make no rash promises. She was secretly 
resenting every word Mr. Hardwicke uttered, but 
prudence kept her silent. 


202 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


1 A word about that money, Mrs. Cheyne, and then 
I’m off. Don’t think any more about it. It’s 
cancelled. Miss Doris and I have settled that. 
But, tell me, is the school paying ? * 

‘No, it isn’t.* 

‘ Then don’t stay on. The quicker you can sell 
out the better, and let those who can ; seek something 
to do elsewhere. That’s my advice to you, and it’s 
given in a friendly spirit. This will make no 
difference in me, Mrs. Cheyne ; I never bear grudges. 
I have had my say, and I’m done. I’ll help you if 
I can.’ 

Mrs. Cheyne murmured her thanks, and having 
no desire to prolong his stay, the squire bade her 
good morning, and went his way. 




CHAPTER XIII. 

YOUTH AND AGE. 

Every man must patiently bide his turn ; he must wait/ 

Longfellow. 

LD DR. PRESCOTT was failing very 
much ; he was seldom now seen out of 
doors, and was unable even to visit the 
great houses to which he was professionally called. 
Windridge managed to undertake all the work, though 
it was too much for any man single-handed. He was 
much liked ; he had that happy faculty, invaluable 
to a medical man, of at once inspiring perfect con- 
fidence in his ability. His manner was calm, self- 
reliant, but gentleness itself. He thus won golden 
opinions everywhere, and it was freely said on all 
sides that it was full time the lucrative returns, as 
well as the heavy work connected with the practice, 




204 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


should pass into his hands. But the old man still 
kept a firm hand on the reins of power, still drew in 
the high fees and paid his assistant his one hundred 
and twenty pounds per annum. He was still the 
same caustic, sharp - tongued, irritable being ; but 
Windridge did not much mind him. He had grown 
accustomed to his eccentricities, as we grow accus- 
tomed to almost anything in this world. Perhaps, 
too, he knew his worth and power in the place, and 
had few doubts concerning the future. 

The two were sitting at dinner one afternoon about 
a week after Doris Cheyne’s memorable pilgrimage to 
Hardwicke Manor. 

‘ You have no other place to go to-night, have you, 
Windridge V asked the old man, as he toyed with 
the morsel of chicken on his plate. His appetite was 
quite gone, and he was worn to a shadow. His 
appearance was calculated to excite compassion, and 
it presented such a contrast to that of the young man 
at the opposite side of the table. He was in the first 
prime of his manhood’s strength, with every faculty 
alive and keen ; his face wearing the ruddy hue of 
health, his eye as clear and unclouded as a summer 
sky. 


YOUTH AND AGE. 


205 


* No, sir, nothing pressing ; but I have been think- 
ing lately that it has become imperative that I should 
have assistance. It is impossible for one man to 
overtake all the work, and to do it anything like 
justice. The distances are too great/ 

‘ Dear me, you are a young strong man ! What 
a dinner you can eat ! * said the old man, looking 
suggestively at Windridge’s plate. ‘ When I was your 
age I thought nothing of work, and I had as much or 
more to do than you have/ 

‘Then it could not all be well done/ replied 
Windridge quietly, quite prepared for some argument 
before he gained his point. ‘ A man cannot work both 
night and day. Nature very soon enters her protest 
strongly against that. I do not intend to do it any 
longer, sir/ 

‘ Indeed, we are very independent/ said Dr. 
Prescott, with his customary Sneer, which did not 
mean much after all. ‘ You are beginning to crow 
now that you have got me laid on the shelf/ 
Windridge smiled, not in the least put out. 

‘I only wish you were off the shelf and could 
drive to Girdlestone every day just now. Lady 
Siichester is the greatest trial of my life at present. 


206 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


There is nothing the matter with her, but I can’t 
convince her of it.’ 

‘Don’t try, my boy. Where is the poor practi- 
tioner to get his living if not off hypochondriacal 
grandees like Lady Silchester ? ’ said the old man 
shrewdly. ‘ Poor patients don’t pay, and when I 
hear of any medical man being in great request among 
the poor, I mentally say, Poor wretch ! He’ll find 
out his mistake.’ 

‘If I can succeed, Dr. Prescott, it will not be 
by flattering the weaknesses of the rich,’ said 
Windridge quietly. ‘ I shall tell my Lady Silchester 
my mind one of these days, whatever be the conse- 
quences. She makes her whole household slaves to 
her selfish whims. She is really as well as I am at 
this moment, if she would only think it.* 

Dr. Prescott shook his head. 

‘A year or two’s experience will cure you of such hot- 
headedness. But what about the young ladies at Kes- 
wick. Always hankering after one of them yet, eh ? ’ 
Windridge smiled, but shook his head. 

‘ You needn’t shake your head, sir,’ said the old man. 
* Are you not going to marry her ? ’ 

* I have not thought of it, sir.’ 


YOUTH AND AGE. 


207 

* Then don’t, or your career’s at an end. Why, if 
you liked, you might be at the very top of the tree ; 
but if you marry a silly thing with nothing but a 
pretty face to recommend her, you’ll need to hang on 
the bottom branches all your days, and be thankful 
you’re able to keep off the ground. If you must 
marry, marry money and position, and so get your 
foot firmly planted on the social ladder.* 

* Lady Silchester, for instance ? * suggested 
Windridge, with a laugh. 

* Well, you might do worse, and nobody has a 
better chance than you. That would be a lift, and 
no mistake. Why, I never thought of that! It 
would be a capital thing.* 

‘Don’t be absurd, Dr. Prescott. The thing is 
beyond a joke. She is old enough to be my mother.* 

* But she’s well preserved. She’s never had any- 
thing to break her down, and think of Girdlestone 
and its rent-roll, my boy.* 

‘What would my Lady Silchester say could she 
overhear us ? * laughed Windridge. ‘ I should get 
the right-about-face next time I presented myself at 
Girdlestone. Good-night, sir, good-night. You will 
be in bed when I come home.* 


208 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


So saying, the surgeon went off to the stable. 

It was true that he had only been once at Keswick 
since the Cheynes went to their new home. They 
had welcomed him kindly and made much of him, 
but he had gone away a miserable man. He saw 
how the proud spirit of his darling (as he often 
passionately called Miriam in his heart) was chafing 
under the dreary routine of her life. He knew from 
the tone of their conversation, and from the air of 
depression and dulness about the house, that times 
were hard with them. That visit had only made 
Gabriel Windridge’s own lot seem intolerable to him, 
and he had even determined to act upon Mr. 
Hardwicke’s suggestion, and begin to practise on his 
own account in Grasmere. But on his return home, 
the sight of the feeble old man, and the knowledge 
that he depended upon and trusted him implicitly, 
made the young surgeon resolve to battle yet a little 
longer, and to wait with patience the issues of time. 

Windridge heard a great deal of tittle-taitle, though 
he never encouraged it, in the houses of his patients. 
Heedless to say, he had heard the story of Doris 
Cheyne’s visit to Hardwicke Manor. He had dis- 
believed it at first, then it had puzzled him. He was 


YOUTH AND AGE. 


209 


disappointed in Doris. He liad thought she would 
have borne and suffered anything rather than become 
the wife of Mr. Hardwicke. But now there could be 
no doubt of it, and he wondered what there could be 
in the thing to annoy and dissatisfy him. She was 
only doing what most women in her place would do, 
and for which nobody could blame her. 

There was a difference indeed between the luxury 
and splendour of Hardwicke Manor and the pinched 
gentility of Sunbury Villa. Yet he was disappointed, 
even slightly angry, when he thought of it. He felt 
that the bonds of friendship and sympathy between 
Doris and himself were broken. She had deceived 
him, and he could never believe in her again. So 
poor Doris was misjudged. Had she known of 
Gabriel Windridge’s hard thoughts, it would have 
been another drop in an already too bitter cup. In 
spite of Mr. Hardwicke’s very plain speaking, Mrs. 
Cheyne did not treat Doris well. She was cold and 
often bitter in her manner towards her. If she had 
ever been in her mother’s heart, she was shut out 
now. Mrs. Cheyne kept her out of the family circle. 
If she happened to be talking about anything, how- 
ever trivial, when Doris entered the room, she shut 
18 


210 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


her mouth. She never addressed her voluntarily. 
Her messages and orders — for they partook of the 
nature of orders — were delivered to Doris through 
one or other of the girls, never directly to herself. 
Mrs. Cheyne was not only a thoroughly selfish 
woman, she was cruel and heartless as well, though 
under the disguise of resignation and suffering mar- 
tyrdom. She is not exaggerated. Her prototype is 
to be encountered everywhere. They are to be pitied 
who have to endure such a burden in their homes. 

Miriam also was cold and distant to Doris. She 
did not understand her, of course. She thought she 
had made a ridiculous fool of herself, and renounced 
a very advantageous settlement in life. She could 
scarcely forgive her for having removed a ray of hope 
from their horizon. Josephine also was languidly 
disapproving, Kitty alone genuinely and actively 
sympathetic. But for Kitty’s sweet comfort, Doris 
must have sunk under a load peculiarly trying to her 
sensitive nature. She sometimes thought of Gabriel 
Windridge with a kind of wistful longing which she 
did not understand. How quickly he had forgotten 
them ! The sympathy he had given her seemed more 
a dream of the imagination than a fact. 


YOUTH AND AGE. 


21 I 


She sometimes thought with longing, also, of her 
Uncle Penfold, with whom Eosamond was so very 
happy. Eosamond’s letters were very bright things 
in Doris’s, life. The child seemed to be thoroughly 
at home, and to be enjoying the privileges her good 
uncle so willingly accorded her. She was finishing 
her education, and at the same time making a home 
for the old man. Eosamond had the making of a 
good woman in her, and she was under safe and kind 
guidance. 

In London they knew nothing of the depression at 
Keswick. Doris was the chief correspondent, and 
she always endeavoured to write in a cheerful vein. 
They thought the school was fairly successful; in 
reality, it was going back every day. The gossiping 
townspeople gave them six months to be starved out 
of Sunbury Villa. 

It was quite dark when Dr. Windridge rode 
into Keswick that night, but he would have moon- 
light to guide him back. He put up the cob 
at the ‘ George Hotel/ and walked round to Sun- 
bury Villa. Kitty opened the door in answer to his 
knock. 

‘ Oh, Dr. Windridge ! ’ she cried breathlessly. * Is 


212 


BORIS CHEYNE, 


it really you ? We thought you must be dead, or 
gone away from Grasmere. Come in.’ 

‘ I am still to the fore, Miss Kitty, though hard 
put to it to get five minutes’ leisure,’ he said gaily. 
‘ How are you all ? ’ 

* Nicely, thank you, except mamma ; but she is 
never very well. You look so well ! Did you ride 
over ? ’ 

* Yes ; “ Jack ” is at the “ George,” ’ answered 
Windridge, and followed Kitty up-stairs. 

They sat constantly in Mrs. Cheyne’s room since 
fires had become necessary in the evenings, thus 
saving the use of fire and fuel in the dining-room. 

‘ There’s somebody coming up- stairs, girls,’ said Mrs. 
Clieyne quickly. ‘It is a man’s step. Who can it 
he ? Oh 5 Dr. Windridge ! how do you do ? ’ 

Mrs. Cheyne was graciously pleased to see the 
surgeon. Anything to break the dreary monotony 
of her life was welcome, and the entrance of the 
strong, broad-shouldered, hearty young man was like 
a breath of mountain air to these women, pent by the 
narrowness of their lives. 

‘ I am well, thank you,’ he answered cheerily. ‘ I 
hope you are well also. How are you , Miss Cheyne ? ’ 


YOUTH AND AGE. 


213 


He had shaken hands first with Mrs. Cheyne and 
Josephine before he came to Miriam. But the 
moment he entered the 300m he had seen the listless 
attitude, the dispirited air, the pale face, and weary 
eye. He even thought, as she laid her hand in his, 
that it was thinner than of yore, and that the figure 
in the long, plain black serge gown had lost some- 
thing of its rounded grace. 

‘ And where is Miss Doris ? I miss her/ he said, 
glancing inquiringly round the room as he took a 
chair. 

‘ Oh, Doris will be somewhere. She chooses not 
to sit here generally/ said Mrs. Cheyne. ‘ Kitty, you 
may find her, and tell her Dr. Windridge wishes 
to see her.’ 

Kitty left the room, but returned in a few minutes 
without Doris, and nobody spoke of her again. 

Mrs. Cheyne, with a vivacity scarcely in keeping 
with her invalid pretensions, immediately monopolised 
the surgeon. He was hard put to it to answer the 
flood of questions with which she deluged him. 
While he talked, however, he keenly watched Miriam. 
She did not appear to he interested. She sat in the 
same listless attitude, her pale hands folded on her 


214 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


lap, her eyes fixed dully on the fire. She had not a 
word to say. She was like a being who had lost hold 
of the concerns of life. How Windridge longed for 
a moment’s quiet talk with her ! But he found no 
opportunity, and was obliged at parting to bend 
towards her and speak in a low voice, — 

* When may I see you again alone ? I see you 
are unhappy. I fear this is too much for you. 
When may I come ? ’ 

* If you should come in another four months, Dr. 
Windridge, there will he changes here,’ she said 
enigmatically, and that was all. He was left to make 
of it what he pleased. 

As Kitty was helping him with his coat in the 
hall, the dining-room door was opened, and Doris 
came out. She had been sitting alone in the dark- 
ness — it was preferable to the atmosphere of the room 
up-stairs. 

* How are you, Dr. Windridge ? I thought I 
should like to see you before you went,’ she said, 
offering her hand. 

He took it in both of his, greatly to the astonish- 
ment of Kitty, who discreetly retired. 

One look at the face of Doris, in its earnest, 


YOUTH AND AGE. 


2T 5 


pathetic wistfulness, had made his sympathy revive 
in a tenfold degree. 

‘ I thought you had forgotten us/ she said simply. 

‘No,’ I have not forgotten. I am a busy man. 
Miss Doris, you look far from well/ 

* I am not well — in mind at least. I have had a 
great trouble since I saw you, Dr. Windridge/ 

4 But that will be all ended shortly, when you 
become mistress of Hardwicke Manor. It is to be 
soon, I am told/ 

‘ It is not true/ 

That was all she said, and he felt himself re- 
buked. He might have known she would be true to 
herself. 

‘ I beg your pardon. I believed it, Miss Doris. I 
was not your friend. But I am glad it is not true/ 

* Some day, perhaps, I may tell you of it/ said 
Doris, for somehow a great strength and sweetness 
seemed to fill her whole being while in this man’s 
presence. ‘ How is life with you now ? * 

* Much the same. Toil and moil for ever. Surely 
there must be a good time coming for us all. You 
are finding it a hard struggle, Miss Doris/ 

4 A bitter struggle/ she answered, admitting it in 


2l6 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


words for the first time. * I do not know how it will 
end ; God knows.’ 

4 Else we could not battle on,’ said the surgeon 
reverently, and a strange sense of acquiescence in the 
will of God came upon him. It was the influence of 
this young girl’s pure, loving spirit, touching the fine 
side of his nature, calling his noblest impulses into 
being. 

* Good-bye. I wish I could be sure of seeing you 
soon. We seem to be able to help each other,’ he 
said ; and taking the toilworn hand in his, he raised 
it with tenderness to his lips. 

Doris did not resent it, and when he was gone she 
re-entered the dark room, and sitting down on the 
low couch, cried quietly to herself. Kitty thought 
she had made a discovery, and it was one that made 
her honest heart glad. 

She was convinced in her own mind that Gabriel 
Windridge had transferred his affections from Miriam 
to Doris, and that there was hope for him. 

Could there be a more beautiful ending to Doris’s 
troubles ? 

Such was the question Kitty asked herself. 


CHAPTER XIY. 


Prescott’s will. 




T was ten o’clock when Gabriel Windridge 
entered Dr. Prescott’s house after putting 
his horse to the stable. To his surprise 


the lights were burning brightly in the library 
still, and when he entered he found the old man 
sitting by the fire. 

4 Hot in bed yet, sir ! * he exclaimed. 4 It is surely 
too late for you to be down-stairs. You will suffer for 
it to-morrow/ 

4 1 did not feel drowsy. I suppose I can sit up if 
I like ! ’ said the old man drily. 4 Well, have you 
seen your inamorata / ’ 


19 


217 


2l8 


DORIS CHE VIVE. 


Windridge made no reply, but drew a chair to the 
fireside and took off his boots. 

‘You are uncommonly touchy on the subject. 
Can’t you tell me how they’re all getting on there ? 
Is the school a paying concern Y 

‘I don’t think so, Dr. Prescott. The ladies did 
not seem to be in good spirits.’ 

‘Women can’t manage business, especially women 
reared as they have been. Cheyne was a deal too 
indulgent to them. Is it true one of them is to 
marry our friend Hardwicke ? ’ 

‘ No, it is not true.* 

‘ She would, I suppose, if she’d had a chance. I’ve 
heard it said that he was seeking one of them.’ 

‘ That was true enough, sir, but I believe she 
refused him.’ 

‘ Eh, you don’t say so ! Was it your lady-love ? ’ 

‘No.’ 

‘ Then she must be a woman out of the common, 
or perhaps there was some one else, the usual poor 
young man, to whom she has vowed to be true,’ said 
the old man grimly. ‘ You look depressed yourself, 
Windridge. I suppose you wish you were rich 
now V 


PRESCOTT’S WILL. 


219 


* I do indeed,’ Windridge answered fervently, on 
the impulse of the moment. 

4 Well, you may be some day, if you have patience. 
I suppose you’re only waiting here to step into my 
shoes, eh ? ’ 

‘You have frequently spoken of retiring from 
practice, sir. But for that, I should certainly have 
been out of Grasmere long ago. I think I have 
earned the right to succeed you,’ said Windridge 
plainly. He was feeling keenly on the subject, or 
he might not have so candidly spoken his mind. 

‘You are honest, at least you don’t say one thing 
and think another. You shall succeed me some day, 
my lad, perhaps sooner than you think.’ 

The old man’s tone was kind. He did not seem 
to resent his assistant’s plain speaking. They had 
lived so long together that they understood each 
other. Each had a respect for the other, although 
they had so often a war of words. 

‘ I may tell you, Windridge, I shall never resign 
while I live, and so it becomes an interesting question, 
how long shall I live ? You need not look dismayed. 
I shall not keep you out of your own very long, 
I’m going off soon/ 


220 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


1 If I looked dismayed, sir, it was at the suggestion 
of your death. I am sincere in saying, that rather 
than calculate upon such a chance, or ask myself 
such a question, I would give up all idea of succeed- 
ing you. It is repulsive to me. Had you not so 
frequently spoken of retiring, the probability is, I 
should only have stayed an ordinary time here, and 
sought my livelihood elsewhere. You know that 
any time I have spoken of leaving, you have pressed 
me to remain, and indicated my prospects if I did 
so/ 

* I’m not denying it, am I ? That is a mighty 
proud spirit of yours, Windridge. It needs taming. 
Marriage will break you in. What about Lady 
Silchester, then ? Suppose you had ample means, or 
even a fairly large income just now, which would 
you seek, this Cheyne girl, or the lady of Girdle- 
stone ? * 

Windriage laughed, but answered frankly enough. 

‘ If my position were secured, sir, I’d marry Miss 
Cheyne to-morrow, if she would have me/ 

4 Marry in haste, repent at leisure ; but I suppose 
you must do it. It’s the way of the world, though 
it was never my way. Women are useful enough in 


PRESCOTT'S WILL. 


221 


their place, no doubt, but to be tied to one, who as a 
wife must know all your concerns, and poke her nose 
into everybody’s business, wouldn’t have suited me. 
But every man to his taste. Well, I suppose, some 
day soon you and this fine wife you are so anxious 
about will be reigning here. Of course she’ll turn 
the whole house up, burn my old sticks, and laugh 
at the things I treasured.’ 

Windridge looked at the old man with something 
of apprehension in his eye. He did not like the 
tone of his conversation, and yet there was nothing 
in his appearance to excite alarm. On the contrary, 
he had never seemed so well. His eye was clear 
and bright ; his cheeks were wearing a fine tinge of 
colour; his manner vivacious and natural — the 
symptoms of languor and weariness seemed to have 
left him. 

* Why are you looking at me ? I suppose you 
think I’m wandering in my mind. Hot a bit of it ; 
but I think I’ll go to bed, if you’ll give me your arm 
up -stairs.’ 

Windridge did so, guiding the faltering, unsteady 
step with a gentle firmness peculiarly his own. 

He stayed up-stairs with him, helping him to 


222 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


undress, and seeing that he had all his comforts 
about him. 

‘ You are a good lad, Windridge, and I’ve often 
been hard upon you. But it is good to bear the 
burden in one’s youth. You won’t suffer for it, and 
you’ll sometimes have a kindly thought of the old 
man after he is gone. I’d like you to call the first 
boy Prescott — Prescott Windridge ; rather a fancy 
name, eh ? Good-night, good-night.’ 

4 Good-night, and I hope you will have a sound 
sleep. You are looking and feeling much better, I 
think.’ 

‘Ay, I doubt I am too well ; a sudden spurt, 
perhaps, before the candle expires in the socket. 
Don’t look so vexed. Boy, I believe you don’t hate 
me, though you’ve had cause.’ 

‘ Hate you, sir ! Such a thought was never 
farther from me,’ said Windridge sincerely. ‘ But 
E must not stand talking here, keeping you from 
your sleep. Good night.’ 

‘ Good-night ! Here ! come back a moment,’ said 
the old man, as Windridge was at the door. ‘ Do you 
see that bureau ? The papers are all in there. 
Some of them concern you. There’s only one little 


PRESCOTT S WILL. 


223 

thing to he done. I’ll do it to-morrow. The vicar 
knows all about it. He should be back from the 
Mediterranean one of these days. I daresay he’ll be 
home before he is needed. Good-night/ 

Windridge went down-stairs with a slight feeling 
of uneasiness in his mind. There was something 
which puzzled and concerned him in the old man’s 
manner. He had seen such sudden animation and 
vigour pervade an exhausted frame shortly before 
death. He lit a cigar and sat down by the library 
fire, intending to read for an hour ; but his thoughts 
continually wandered, and at last he threw aside the 
book, put out the lights, and went up to bed. Before 
going into his own room he looked into the Doctor’s, 
and was satisfied to see him sleeping soundly. 

With a mind somewhat set at rest, he went to 
bed, and, being weary, fell asleep at once. He was 
accustomed to sleep lightly and awaken often during 
the night, but his rest was unbroken till six o’clock, 
when he heard the maids stirring in the house. 
His first thought was of the old man, and, being 
thoroughly awake, he jumped up, and, dressing 
partially, crossed the landing to the Doctor’s bedroom. 
He was lying very still, evidently asleep ; but 


224 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


Windridge stepped lightly to the bedside and looked 
at him. His expression was peaceful and calm, like 
that of a person enjoying a sweet, untroubled slumber. 
But his face was colourless, and Windridge’s keen 
eye failed to detect the slightest respiration or 
movement of the body. The old man was quite 
dead. It gave the surgeon a great shock. He 
staggered in his step as he left the room ; even his 
worst imaginings of the previous night had never 
pointed to so sudden an end. 

He went to the top of the stairs and called to 
Hannah, the housekeeper, who had been so long with 
Dr. Prescott. She came running up breathless, and, 
seeing Windridge half-dressed and looking so over- 
come, immediately surmised that something had gone 
wrong. 

‘ The master, sir ? * she asked, beginning to tremble. 

* I have just been in. He has passed away during 
the night,’ answered Windridge. Then the pair 
entered the room together, and stood in silence by 
the side of the quiet sleeper. 

There was no sign of any struggle, or even a last 
pang ; the expression was the same as the face had 
worn when Windridge had looked in before retiring 


PRESCOTT'S WILE 


225 


for the night. It was hard to believe that that busy, 
active brain was still for ever. 

Windridge went about his work that day like a 
man in a dream. He could not realize that there 
was no more a living presence in Dr. Prescott’s 
place, he could not accustom himself to the idea of 
his death. His thoughts dwelt morbidly on every 
turn their conversation had taken on that last 
evening ; he reproached himself for his hard plain 
dealing with the old man. He told himself that he 
ought to have had more respect for his age, that he 
should have been kind and gentle and considerate 
with his little weaknesses ; he wished he had 
performed each duty with more conscientious and 
unselfish care. It is ever so. There is no more 
perfect revenge than that which death takes for every 
hasty word or look, every neglected duty ; it comes 
back upon the living with relentless keenness. Yet 
Windridge had borne what few would have borne ; 
in reality, he had nothing with which to reproach 
himself. 

The old Doctor’s sudden death created a great sensa- 
tion in the neighbourhood. It had been known that he 
was far spent ; but death always comes with a shock. 


226 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


They talked low and kindly about him then, forgetting, 
or at least touching very lightly on, the more rugged 
points of his character ; and recalling and magnify- 
ing every deed which had any claim to be called 
generous or good — a very exquisite thing in our 
human nature, I think, and one which takes the sting 
and the bitterness away from death. 

Dr. Prescott had no living relatives, and it be- 
came a topic of much gossip and surmise how his 
means would be disposed of. He had had few 
intimate friends, and it was generally supposed that 
the assistant would come in for a handsome share. 
Of late, especially, Dr. Prescott had spoken of 
Windridge to outsiders in very high terms. There 
were not wanting the usual meed of envious jealous 
spirits, who remarked that Windridge knew what he 
was doing, and had played his cards well. 

Dr. Prescott had had no dealings with, lawyers, 
^nd his affairs could not be meddled with until the 
return of the vicar, who was his sole executor. 
Windridge was in no haste to know anything about 
these affairs ; he was too genuinely troubled over the 
old man’s sudden death to be even curious in the 
matter. He had a great deal to do, too, there 


PRESCOTT S WILL. 


227 

being no one to make any arrangements for the 
funeral. 

The old Doctor, who had practised in Grasmere 
five-and-forty years, was laid to rest in the classic 
churchyard, and was followed to the grave by a great 
gathering, Windridge being chief mourner. There 
was no one else to take the place, and people seemed 
to give way to him, and to expect him to fill the 
place of a near relative. He had telegraphed to the 
vicar, and had received a reply by letter on the 
morning of the funeral. It was cordial in its tone, 
and stated that he would return as early as his 
family arrangements would permit, and concluded by 
asking Windridge to send him fullest particulars at 
once. How dreary was the old house among the 
elms that night ! Windridge felt alone and unhappy. 
He thought it would be impossible for him to remain 
without companionship. He stayed in the library, 
and had his dinner served to him there, shrinking 
from the idea of taking the familiar seat in the 
dining-room. Strong man though he was, he could 
not bear the idea of the empty chair ! He occupied 
himself for a time by scanning the columns of the 
Lancet , and then wrote out an advertisement for an 


228 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


assistant. That done, he sat down by the fire, and 
in spite of himself his thoughts began to shape 
towards the future. He could not help a thrill at 
his heart, for the chief barrier betwixt Miriam Cheyne 
and himself was removed now. She had said that 
when his position w r as assured he might come back. 
He reproached himself for these thoughts, but they 
continued to intrude upon him. He rose and began 
to pace the room restlessly. He thought of the room 
up-stairs, of the bureau which contained the old man’s 
papers. He felt annoyed that such a thing should 
occur to him, yet he thought of it more and more. 
How quickly he could end any suspense he might 
feel ! by one simple act he could learn all he might 
be interested to know. He grew excited. He called 
himself a fool, and even some harder names. He 
took down a book of solid literature, and tried to 
compel himself to read. But the letters danced 
before him, he saw only the bureau. He pictured 
each pigeon-hole with its document, which might be 
of so much importance to him. Windridge was an 
honest young fellow, but subject to temptation. He 
was fiercely tempted now, and had no special grace 
given him at the moment to resist it. He felt impelled 


FRESCO TVS WILL. 


229 


towards the door ; he ascended the stairs, slowly, it 
must be told, hut still ascended, and entered the 
master’s room. He did not even take the precaution 
to shut the door, and so might have been observed 
by the maids had they been about. But both 
were in the kitchen, discussing the events of the past 
days in low and depressed tones. Doubtless changes 
were in store for them too. 

Windridge opened the desk without trouble, it 
being unlocked. The first thing he saw lying on the 
desk was a sheet of foolscap bearing the words, 
‘ William Prescott’s Will/ 

Its contents were brief but unmistakable enough. 
After the mention of a few bequests to servants and 
others, including two hundred pounds to the vicar 
for his trouble in acting as executor, it was concisely 
and shortly stated that all means and properties of 
every kind whatsoever were unconditionally be- 
queathed to Gabriel Windridge. 




CHAPTER XV. 

SYMPATHY. 

'Friendship, of itself an holy tie, 

Is made more sacred by adversity.' 

Dryden. 

Y dear Windridge, I congratulate you. 
You deserve your good fortune. I am 
glad it has been all so satisfactorily 
settled, and the will proved in your favour. I was 
sometimes afraid the old man would change his 
mind. lie was as capricious as a child/ 

So spoke the vicar in his genial, hearty way to the 
surgeon in the library of the Doctor’s house on the 
evening of his return from abroad. He was a large- 
hearted, sympathetic, truly lovable man, who in his 
daily walk fulfilled the Scripture behest, to rejoice 
with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that 
weep. 



230 


SYMPATHY. 


231 


He had a sincere respect for Windridge, and 
considered that his inheritance from Dr. Prescott 
was no more than his due. 

‘ Thank you, sir/ said Windridge quietly. He 
was not elated over his good fortune, the vicar 
thought, and liked him all the better for his regretful 
thoughts of the old man. 

‘ I would have been more than content with the 
practice and the house, Mr. Thorold/ he added by 
and by. * I have no claim upon Dr. Prescott. If 
we could find even a distant relative, I should be 
glad to give it up.’ 

‘ My dear sir, your sentiments do you credit, but 
you can’t set aside a document like this/ said the 
vicar, tapping the will with his forefinger. ‘And 
why should you not rejoice in it ? Accept your 

good fortune humbly, yet heartily, as a gift from 

God, and show your gratitude by enlarging your 

good works. You have done what you could with 

small means — nay, don’t interrupt ; I hear of the 
good you do by stealth, and have loved you for it ; 
and surely the labourer is worthy of his hire/ 

‘I did not seem very much surprised when you 
told me the contents of the will, Mr. Thorold/ said 


2 32 DORIS CHEYNE. 

the surgeon rather shamefacedly. ‘I knew them 
already.’ 

4 Indeed ! Did Dr. Prescott tell you himself, 
then ? * 

‘No. He told me the night before his death 
where his papers were. In a weak and tempted 
moment I allowed myself to do a dishonourable 
action, for which I shall never forgive myself. I 
opened the bureau. It was not lockfast, of course, 
but I had no right with what it contained/ 

Windridge made his confession hesitatingly, yet 
with apparent relief. He hated himself for allowing 
temptation to overcome him so easily. The vicar 
sympathized with his keen feeling in the matter. 
He was not one to sit on a lofty height and judge a 
fellow* creature. He saw that the honourable nature 
of the young man had received a blemish from which 
it would be difficult to free himself. 

* It was a natural curiosity, perhaps, and we are 
all prone to temptation/ he said very kindly. * There 
has been no great harm done. Your action could 
not vex the dead or the living ; but it has hurt you, 
I see. Long may you retain that keen sensitiveness. 
It will be your safeguard in the hour of peril/ 


SYMPATHY. 


2 33 


‘ It was about the practice I was anxious, sir ; it 
was of vital moment to me that it should not be put 
past me/ said Windridge humbly. * I am glad I have 
told you the truth ; it has weighed upon me, making 
me a miserable man. I do not know how a human 
being can support the mental anguish necessarily 
entailed by the commission of actual crime/ 

f Ah ! there must be a hardening process first. 
The ladder leading down to gross sin is one of 
degrees of very shallow steps. The bottom is not 
reached by a single step. Lift up your head, man ! 
If I mistake not, this slight deviation from the most 
honourable path will be a solemn lesson. It will 
make a Hercules of you where temptation is con- 
cerned/ 

He held out his hand kindly. His heart was 
large, his soul luminous with human sympathy. It 
was not only his office, but his delight, to strengthen 
and comfort. 

Windridge gripped it firm and fast in his, looked 
into the good man’s face, and was comforted. 

4 You say it was important that you should 
succeed to the practice/ said the vicar, with a 

twinkle in his eye. ‘ Many little birds are flying in 
20 


234 


DORIS CHEYNE . . 


the air when I am abroad. Is it true that we may 
live to see a sweet wife in the old house ? Dear me, 
how it would brighten the place ! * 

‘ It is true, sir/ Windridge answered, smiling too. 

* She is a beautiful girl. I hope she will make 
you happy/ said the vicar, as he rose to go. 

Thinking over his words afterwards, Windridge 
wondered a little at the form of his congratulation. 
Why had he not expressed the hope that they would 
be happy together? His mind somewhat relieved 
by the confession he had made to the vicar, Wind- 
ridge could now look a little ahead into the future 
which had undergone so marvellous a change. He 
was a rich man, but he did not realize it. Care had 
been his companion so long — anxiety about sordid 
affairs had so long sapped the hearty springs of his 
youth, that he could not just at once believe that 
these burdens had rolled away from him for ever. 
It came upon him by degrees. Perhaps the thing 
which brought it most strongly home to him was the 
treatment he received outside. There was a marked 
difference in the demeanour of the people towards 
him. He was met with cordiality and even warmth 
where he had formerly known only stiffness and cold 


SYMPATHY. 


235 


toleration. Gabriel Windridge the assistant and 
Gabriel Windridge the sole heir and successox to 
Dr. Prescott, were two very different beings. 

These things amused Windridge not a little ; but 
a certain bitterness mingled with that amusement. 
The world’s homage was not for the man, but for his 
possessions. It loved not him, but what he had. 
He met their advances courteously, but coldly ; many 
remembered snubs and even insults were uppermost 
in his mind as their honeyed words fell upon his ears. 

Windridge was not in a hurry to go to Keswick. 
His finer instincts deterred him from wishing to 
acquaint Miriam Cheyne with his changed circum- 
stances. Doubtless they were all already acquainted 
with all that had befallen him. He would be in no 
unseemly haste to take advantage of his good 
fortune ; he would pay that respect to the memory 
of the old man. 

It being the beginning of winter, he was very busy 
professionally, and it was only when he had secured 
an efficient assistant towards the middle of December 
that he found breathing space. Seven weeks after 
the day of Dr. Prescott’s funeral, on a fine frosty 
evening, Windridge set out for Keswick. 


236 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


He was in good spirits — nay, his heart was heating 
with happy exultation. He pictured Miriam, beauti- 
ful, queenly, gracious, reigning in the old house 
among the elms, his wife, surrounded by every luxury 
and comfort, given to her by himself. It was a 
heart-stirring thought; it quickened his pulses and 
made the blood -flow faster in his veins. The town 
bells were ringing eight as he walked up the quiet 
street to Sunbury Villa. It was Doris who opened 
the door to him. And he thought her looking 
harassed and worn. She had not even a smile for 
him as she shook hands. 

‘ Dr. Windridge ! How are you ? Come in/ she 
said quietly, and took him into the dining-room. 

It was cold and cheerless, with one small lamp 
burning dimly on the table. Doris shut the door 
and asked him to sit down. 

‘ You are all well, I trust ? * he said, depressed by 
his reception, by something in the atmosphere of the 
house. 

‘Yes, we are well. Mamma is prostrated by the 
shock. Of course you have heard ? * 

‘ Heard what ? * 

‘ That Miriam has left us/ 


SYMPATHY. 


237 


* Left you ! Where to go ? what to do ? * asked 
Wind ridge blankly. 

‘ Ah, that we do not know ! She left us two days 
ago. We have no clue to her whereabouts.’ 

Doris saw the deep concern on the face of the 
surgeon; his eyes betrayed his painful disappoint- 
ment. She thought it kind of him to be so interested 
in them ; they had now so few friends. She had 
heard of his good fortune, and had been glad for him. 

‘ Have you made no inquiries, Miss Doris ? Any- 
thing may have happened to her. Why, she might 
even be drowned in one of these treacherous lakes/ 
he said hotly. 

Doris slightly smiled as she shook her head. 

4 Oh, no, she is not drowned. Miriam can and 
will be careful of herself. You may read this letter 
if you like. She left it for me.’ 

As she spoke, Doris drew an envelope from her 
pocket and handed it to the surgeon. He took it 
eagerly, and devoured the contents, which were brief 
enough. 

‘My dear Doris/ it ran, ‘I have made up my ' 
mind to leave what is a losing concern, and try my 
fortune elsewhere. I think it better to go away 


238 DORIS CHEYNE. 

quietly, in order to escape mamma’s customary fuss. 
You need not be at all anxious about me. I am very 
well able to take care of myself, and I am too proud 
to do wrong. If I don’t succeed, you shall never hear 
from nor see me again ; but if my hopes are realized, 
I hope to repay you for the heavy share of the 
burden which is left to you. Of course I know that 
now our mother will be dependent upon you. My 
advice to you is to give up the school, and let 
Josephine and Kitty go out teaching. I cannot 
suggest anything for you, but I am not at all afraid. 
You can succeed when others would sink in despair. 
Don’t think me very heartless. I am sick to death 
of this life, and if I have any talent, the sooner I 
turn it to account the better. 

‘Miriam Ciieyne.* 

It was the letter of a selfish woman, the outcome 
of a thoroughly selfish heart. Windridge felt that 
as he folded it up. And now the burden lay upon 
the shoulders of the young frail girl before him ; his 
heart was filled with a vast compassion for her. If 
only he might out of his own ample means offer her 
the help of a friend, but that he dared not do. 


SYMPATHY. 


239 


* Have you no idea where she has gone ? * he 
asked. 

* Yes, I have. I think she has gone to London.* 

* What to do ? * 

* To go upon the stage.* 

Windridge’s face darkly clouded. That was a 
bitter moment for him. 

‘My errand here to-night, Miss Doris, was to ask 
your sister Miriam to be my wife,* he said, impelled 
to give her his entire confidence. 

Doris winced, and even slightly shivered. She 
did not know why she should feel as if the darkest 
cloud of all had fallen upon her heart. It was only 
for a moment; then, as ever, thought for others 
came to the front. She took a step nearer Wind- 
ridge, she laid her hand upon his arm. 

‘ Oh ! Dr. Windridge, if only you had been in 
time, she might not have gone away. Could you 
not bring her back ? I cannot bear the thought of 
the life she is seeking,* she cried, with great sad 
earnestness. * How much happier she would be 
with you ! * 

* It will be no easy task to find her, I fear, Miss 
Doris, but I shall try/ Windridge answered; and 


240 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


again he was struck by something beautiful in the 
face of Doris Cheyne. It was the sweet, noble soul 
shining in her lustrous eyes. To be near her, to 
hear her speak, was to feel the presence of a being 
better than himself. He thought more kindly of her 
at that moment than of his absent love. 

* Thank you. I have such confidence in you, that 
I feel as if Miriam were safe already/ she said, with 
a ready smile. * I have heard of your happy fortune, 
and was glad. Life should flow in pleasanter 
channels for you now/ 

‘ I am at least freed from sordid cares, and that is 
much to be grateful for. They wear out the soul/ 
said Windridge. ‘But here this disappointment 
overtakes me at the very outset of my new life. It 
is hard to understand why we should be so tried/ 
‘We are only at school on earth, Dr. Wind- 
ridge, and will have hard tasks set us to the end/ 
said Doris, with a slow, sad smile, which gave a 
pathetic curve to her grave mouth. * Some of us 
need harder discipline than others. Mine is a very 
stubborn will, but it is being subdued by degrees/ 

1 God bless and help you, Doris/ said Windridge 
fervently, from the bottom of his heart. He was 


SYMPATHY. 


241 


deeply moved. ‘May I ask what you intend to do 
now ? Can you keep on the school ? ’ 

‘ Oh, no 1 even had Miriam been with us, we 
should have been obliged to give it up next month. 
We have so few pupils, they do not nearly pay the 
rent/ answered Doris quietly. ‘Josephine and Kitty 
must go out as governesses. Kitty has already 
answered several advertisements. Josephine paints 
beautifully, if she would exert herself. I believe 
there are places in London for the sale of gentle- 
women’s work. I must get these addresses.’ 

‘ And ycurself ? Forgive me asking. It is not 
out of idle curiosity. I am deeply, truly interested 
in you all/ said Windridge earnestly. 

‘ I know you to be true, else I could not speak to 
you so unreservedly. It is a relief to me even to 
see you/ answered Doris quietly. She really felt all 
she said, and the words were simply and honestly 
uttered. They went very deep to Windridge’s heart. 
‘ We must leave this house and take a smaller one, 
a very small one, to hold mamma and me. I hope 
to get something to do in the town ; a few hours’ 
engagement of some sort. I must not be very long 

away from mamma. Uncle Penfold will help us. 

21 


242 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


and the girls when they get settled. God will not 
let us be utterly cast down. I can still trust/ 

‘ Miss Doris, I am a rich man. Let me help you. 
What is the use of money except to help those we 
love ? ’ said Windridge earnestly. 

Doris was grateful, but shook her head. 

‘We are already indebted to Mr. Hardwicke; I 
would prefer not to incur any new obligations, even 
to you, who are so truly our friend. But I promise 
you that we will not suffer. I will come to you, if 
necessary, for Miriam’s sake/ 

She said the last words in a whisper, finding them 
reluctant to come. Why, she could not tell. 

With that Windridge was obliged to be content. 
But as he rode along the bleak road through the 
mountains that night, his thoughts were wholly of 
Doris Cheyne. 




CHAPTER XVI. 

A BRAVE WOMAN. 

‘Nature often enshrines gallant and noble hearts in weak bosoms 
— oftenest, God bless her ! in female breasts.’ — Dickens. 

you there, Doris ? May I come in ? ' 
Yes, dear/ 

Doris opened the door of her own room 
and admitted Kitty, who had an open letter in her 
hand. It was the day after Wind ridge’s visit to 
Sunbury Villa. 

‘This has just come. It is from the lady who 
advertised from Carlisle. What do you think of it ? * 

Doris took the letter and read it carefully. 

‘ I like the tone of it, Kitty ; but the salary is not 
large/ said Doris. ‘ What do you think ? * 

‘ I want to go. I think that Mrs. Ilesketh must 
be a nice woman. She says so honestly she can’t 

243 



244 


DORIS CIIEYNE. 


afford to give more than five -and -twenty pounds. 
The half of it would buy my clothes, and I could 
send the other half to you.’ 

Tears were in the eyes of Doris ; but she had a 
very thankful heart. Kitty, with all her nonsense 
and lightness of heart, was real and true, and would 
yet make a woman of herself. 

‘ ITave you shown this to mamma ? * 

* Not yet. It is better to have one’s mind made 
up, I think, before speaking to mamma about any- 
thing. She sees so many difficulties in the way,’ 
said Kitty, with her usual candour. 

‘ Poor mamma. She has had a hard life of it 
since we lost papa/ said Doris softly. 

In word and act she was loyal always to her 
mother, but sometimes she was sorely tempted to 
have some hard thoughts of her. Nothing pleased 
her ; her best mood was a sort of resigned acquies- 
cence in misery, and they were thankful when she 
was quiet. Her fretful complaining was the most 
trying thing in Doris’s life. 

* I shall talk to mamma about it by and by, then. 
Yes, I like this letter,’ said Doris, glancing over it 
again. * A good woman wrote it. You will be at 


A BRAVE WOMAN. 


245 

home at OakhilL How glad I am to think you will 
he comfortable ! She wants you to come at once, 
though/ 

‘Yes. How soon do you think I could go?* 
asked Kitty. 

She asked Doris’s advice more readily than she 
would ask her mother’s. Doris was practically the 
head of the house, who thought and decided for 
them all. But for her, I fear they would have found 
themselves in a sorry plight. 

‘ Then it is settled, and I shall write that I shall 
come on Saturday. It is not very far away, that is 
one comfort. I can run often through to see you all.’ 

‘That will take money, my darling. "VVe shall 
have to exercise very strict self-denial for a time/ 
said Doris, with a sad smile. 

‘ Don’t you think Josephine is very lazy, Doris ? 
She does nothing but lie on the sofa and read novels. 
Does she suppose you are going to support her ? ’ 

* Oh, no ! she will rouse up presently,’ said Doris, 
trying to speak cheerfully. ‘She will do great 
tilings with her painting when she sees there is 
absolutely nothing but it between her and want/ 

‘How awful to think it has come to that with 


246 DORIS CHEYNE. 

us ! * said Kitty drearily. * Doris, doesn't it seem 
positively centuries since we were at the “ Nest” ? 
We must have been very wicked, surely, to need such 
a sore punishment. When I think of mamma and 
you, Doris, I don’t know what to do. Do you never 
think that even Hardwicke Manor would have been 
preferable to these straits ? ’ 

* No.' Doris emphatically shook her head. * Do 
you know, Kitty, if it weren’t for mamma, I should 
enjoy fighting my way. I must be very pugnacious, 
I think, for no sooner am I confronted with a new 
problem than I feel determined to overcome it. But 
mamma cannot accommodate herself to changed 
circumstances. She misses what she has been 
accustomed to. We are younger, and can bear 
hardships better.' 

‘You are very noble, Doris. I do think you a 
grand woman. I don’t know what you deserve. I 
know I was a selfish little wretch until you made me 
ashamed.' 

‘I have done nothing very grand, Kitty. My 
work has been all among little things and in 
by-paths. It is only in a quiet way I can be of any 
use. I am very glad that God has made me useful. 


A BRAVE WOMAN. 


247 


even in a small way. I used to think and long for 
great things, but now I only ask to he guided every 
step. It is the only way we can bravely face our 
life, I think. Its mystery is not for us to penetrate. 
It is much easier and sweeter for us not to try, but 
to leave it with God ; at least I have found living 
from day to day the only way for me.’ 

The face of Doris wore a restful dreamy expres- 
sion, her beautiful eyes a soft and exquisite peace. 
Her heart was resting on Him who bids us cast all 
our care upon Him. That was the secret of Doris’s 
calm demeanour in the midst of many sore per- 
plexities. She had no fear, because her case was in 
His hand. Such faith had come to the girl by slow 
degrees, and when her faith in all else was shaken. 
The dearth of human love in her lot had driven her 
into the shadow of the Divine. 

* Have you thought what you are to do with this 
house, then, Doris ? * asked Kitty, sitting down on 
the front of the bed, and folding her arms. 

‘ Oh, yes ; I have seen about that too. There is a 
lady who will rent it furnished, if we can let her 
have it before Christmas.’ 

* And will you ? ’ 


248 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


‘Certainly. We cannot afford to let any offer 
pass us. I spoke to Mr. Hardwicke about it yester- 
day. I happened to meet him when I was in the 
town. He was very good. lie says the furniture 
is mine to do as I like with. I will regard it as 
such until I can pay him for it. I hope to do that 
some day/ 

* What doe« mamma say to that ? ’ 

* I have not told her. I shall not tell her until I 
have got another house for her. She would fret 
herself and us out of sorts. I am very sorry to keep 
things from her in that way, Kitty, but it is the only 
way/ 

‘ Don’t I know ? ’ asked Kitty, with an expressive 
shrug, for which she may be forgiven. 

Mrs. Cheyne was not an old woman, and she was 
perfectly strong and able to take part in the battle. 
There was not the shadow of a reason why she 
should leave it all to Doris. It was too much for 
the mind of a young girl, the constant strain must 
make her old before her time. 

‘ I know of a little cottage near the lake-side, 
Kitty/ continued Doris. * I have had my eye on it 
for some time ; for I feared we would need to make 


A BRAVE WOMAN. 


249 


a change. It is empty now. I am going to see 
about it to-day. Will you come ? * 

* Yes, Doris ; do you know you are a perfect 
genius ? How can you think of everything, and do 
it too ? ' 

Doris smiled. 

* It is the only thing I am good for. The cottage is 
a very tiny place, Kitty, not so big as the lodge at 
the “ Nest.” Only two tiny rooms and a kitchen. I 
expect to have a terrible battle with mamma over it. 
But there is a dear little garden, and a lovely view 
of the lake ; and what is more important than all at 
present, the rent is only eight pounds/ 

* And what about the furniture for it ? * 

* The lady whom I saw about this house offered to 
pay me a quarter’s rent in advance. With part of 
it I shall buy a few things, and get the house 
set in order at once. We must move before next 
Thursday/ 

‘ And after that, Doris, how will you live ? * 

* I must get something to do, and I will * said 
Doris, with quiet resolution. ‘ God will help me ; 
I know He will, because I have asked Him. Then 
Josephine must earn something, or she cannot remain 


250 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


with us, Kitty. It would not be just to mamma or 
to myself to keep her, and she is quite as able to go 
out as a governess as you are. If she does not 
think of it, I must speak to her. It will not be 
pleasant, but it must be done/ 

Doris was unselfish, but she had common sense. 
For her mother she would work and deny herself to 
the last degree, but not for her sisters, so long as 
they could help themselves. In this she exhibited 
a firmness and knowledge of the world which was a 
fine offset to the sweeter points of her nature. She 
knew that unless Josephine could be thoroughly 
roused, she would sink into a state of mental lethargy 
which would be her ruin, so far as fulfilling any 
useful purpose in the world was concerned. With 
their fallen fortunes Josephine had lost all her pride 
in herself, and had even become slovenly in her 
personal appearance. So long as she could obtain 
creature comforts and an engrossing novel, she cared 
for nothing else — a very bad condition for any young 
woman to be in. 

Kitty went out with Doris to see the cottage at 
the lake-side, and then they called on the proprietor. 
Kitty was amazed at the quiet, collected, business- 


A BRAVE WOMAN. 


251 

like manner in which Doris made every arrangement, 
asking that certain improvements might be made 
before she decided to take it. The affair was 
satisfactorily settled, and the house was to be in 
readiness for them by the middle of the following 
week. 

* I must go now and see the lady, Mrs. Boothroyd, 
who wishes to rent Sunbury Villa/ said Doris when 
they left the landlord’s house. ‘ She is in apart- 
ments at the other side of the town. We can be 
back in time for tea. Will you come ? ’ 

Kitty would rather not. She was shy of strangers, 
and their errand was not singularly pleasant. Doris 
saw her hesitation, and laughed. 

‘ There is a touch of pride in you yet, Kitty/ she 
said good-naturedly, understanding her so thoroughly. 
* Never mind, I don’t mind going alone — in fact, I 
think I would rather. Say nothing to mamma. I 
shall tell her everything when I come home.’ 

So saying, Doris went off with a nod and a smile, 
and Kitty turned her face towards home. It was a 
perfect mystery to her how Doris could do un- 
pleasant things so calmly, just because they had 
to be done; if the family welfare had depended 


DORIS CHE YNE. 


252 

even on Kitty, they would have been in a singular 
position. 

Doris’s idea of duty was very strong; on no 
occasion would she allow herself to shirk it. She 
was conscientious to a degree. And their affairs now 
had become so urgent that they required instant action, 
which Doris undertook because there was no one else. 

She had found Mrs. Boothroyd a singularly 
pleasant person to deal with. She was a childless 
widow, just returned from India, where her husband 
had been engaged in the Civil Service. Her health 
had been injured by a too long residence in the 
trying climate, and she was almost constantly con- 
fined to the house. Her early home had been within 
sight of Windermere, but she had come back to find 
it a land of strangers. Her very name seemed to be 
forgotten in the place. Nevertheless, her heart 
clung to the familiar scenes, and she had at length 
decided to winter in Keswick, if she could find a 
suitable abode. Quite by accident, Doris had heard 
her in a stationer’s shop one day inquiring whether 
there were any furnished houses to let for the winter 
months. The man had given her a list, but after 
looking over it she had said none of them would 


WINDERMERE 
































































































































































































































































































































- 




A BRAVE WOMAN. 


255 


suit. They were all too large and too expensive for 
her. When it became a certainty that they must 
leave Sunbury Villa, Doris had thought of this lady, 
and, having obtained her address from the stationer 
called upon her. The result was that Mrs. 
Boothroyd said she would rent the house, being 
quite willing to take it on Miss Cheyne’s recom- 
mendation. Doris did not know how much her own 
earnest, simple, lady-like demeanour had to do with 
this decision, nor how much the lady had been 
interested in her. 

She found Mrs. Boothroyd on the sofa that 
afternoon, looking white and tired, it having been 
one of her bad days. She was a very sweet woman 
— one of those who carry the sunshine of a loving 
heart on their faces. Her smile inspired trust and 
even love at first sight. 

4 Miss Cheyne ! I am so glad to see you ! * she 
said, extending her hand in cordial welcome. * I 
was thinking of you a little time ago. Have you 
talked over the house with your mother? I hope 
you are not going to disappoint me. I have set my 
heart on that little room with the peep of the lake. 
Do sit down, you look so tired.* 


256 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


‘ Yes, I am tired, thank you ; I have not been 
sleeping well of late. I have not spoken to mamma 
yet, Mrs. Boothroyd; I should like it all settled 
first.’ 

‘ That is rather extraordinary, but I daresay — 
yes, I know it is all right,’ said Mrs. Boothroyd, with 
a keen, kind look into the girl’s eyes. ‘ Then have 
you got another house for yourselves ? 7 

‘ Yes.’ 

‘ And you could let me in next week ? I know 
of a nice girl I could get for a servant, at once. I 
should dearly like to have a corner of my own to 
spend Christmas in/ 

‘ Yes, our house ' is to be ready for us next 
Wednesday. You could get into S unbury Villa on 
that day, Mrs. Boothroyd.’ 

4 That will do very nicely, then ; I am glad it is 
settled. But I am sorry to think you have to give 
up your home. Don’t you feel rather hard against 
me?’ 

‘ Oh, no ! it has never been our home. It will 
cost us nothing to leave it,’ said Doris quickly. ‘ I 
think I shall be glad. We have had a great deal to 
bear in it/ 


A BRA VE WOMAN: 


257 


‘Ah I have touched a tender spot; my dear, 
forgive me/ said Mrs. Boothroyd, with a sympathetic 
glance at the girl’s shabby mourning. 

‘Not that kind of trouble. It happened in our 
old home. Our father left us there/ said Doris, 
and her voice shook. She was worn with the strain 
upon her, and had not dared to let her mind dwell 
on the past. Her father’s name, hidden deeply in 
her heart, had not been on her lips for many months. 
But all at once the memory of his loving care, the 
very tone of his voice when he had called her ‘ my 
daughter/ swept over her, and her tired head fell 
upon her hands, while strong sobbing shook her from 
head to foot. She did not know how weak and 
spent she was physically and mentally till the 
mystic touch of a genuinely sympathetic nature had 
opened the floodgates of her heart. 

She was sitting quite close to the couch; Mrs. 
Boothroyd laid her hand with great tenderness on 
the girl’s arm, with the other she wiped her own 
eyes. 

‘ Pray, forgive me. I do not know how to excuse 
myself/ said Doris hurriedly at length, and calming 

herself by a strong effort. ‘ I did not mean — I had 

22 


258 BORIS CHEYNE, 

no right to distress you. I do not know why I 
should have lost my self-control/ 

‘Hush, my dear! make no excuses. I see you 
are borne down with trouble and anxiety. I am a 
stranger to you, Miss Cheyne, but I have known 
very bitter sorrow, and my heart bleeds for you. 
If it would relieve you to talk to me as a friend, do 
so. My dear, your confidence would be sacred. If 
not, never mind, we may learn to know each other 
by and by/ 

* You are very good, very good/ Doris said, with 
real gratitude; but though her heart went out to 
the dear woman, her natural reserve prevented her 
from talking of their troubles to the acquaintance of 
a few hours. Had these troubles been exclusively 
her own, she might have unburdened her heart. 

‘You will come sometimes and see me, I hope, 
when I am in your old house/ said Mrs. Boothroyd 
cheerfully. *1 shall be lonely enough. I do not 
know any one in the town/ 

‘Thank you, I shall come, if I have time, Mrs. 
Boothroyd. I hope you will like the house, and be 
encouraged to stay in it. It is very pleasant to 
think of you as being there. I had such a dread of 


A BRA VE WOMAN. 


259 

what my experience might be in hunting for a 
tenant.’ 

Mrs. Boothroyd smiled. 

‘ And you, my dear, are very different from 
the ordinary landlady. You are the landlady, I 
suppose ? ’ 

‘I suppose so. Yes, I must be,’ said Doris, a 
momentary hesitation vanishing as she thought of 
her helpless, complaining mother and her indolent 
sister. 

‘ Would you kindly pass me my desk from the 
cabinet ? ’ Mrs. Boothroyd asked ; arid when it was 
placed before her she opened it, and counted out 
fifteen sovereigns. 

‘ There, Miss Cheyne, that is the quarter’s rent in 
advance, and you will write a receipt while I ring 
for tea,’ she said, in her pleasant, chatty way. ‘ Yes, 
my dear, you must have a cup with me just to 
humour my whim. Besides, you look so tired and 
exhausted. I am quite anxious about you.’ 

The next half-hour was the pleasantest Doris had 
spent since their exile from the 4 Nest.’ 

Mrs. Boothroyd was an accomplished, far-travelled 
woman and a fluent talker, and she entertained her 


2 6o 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


visitor with gossipy details about her Indian life, 
which Doris found deeply interesting. She forgot 
that she was with a stranger, and came wonderfully 
out of her shell. 

While she was speaking, Mrs. Boothroyd keenly 
watched the girl, studying every expression. She 
was deeply interested in her. She decided to see 
more of Doris Cheyne, to befriend her if she could. 




CHAPTER XVII. 

WAYS AND MEANS. 

‘There’s many a good piece o’ work done with a sad heart.' — 

George Eliot. 

OSEPHINE and Kitty had gone out for a 
walk, leaving Doris to acquaint their 
mother with the changes immediately in 
prospect. It was not an easy task, it was one of 
the hard tilings in Doris’s life. 

Mrs. Cheyne had shown herself shrewd and clever 
enough in the Hardwicke affair; how, then, could 
she so calmly allow herself to drift with the tide 
now, without so much as inquiring how the wind 
blew ? Perhaps it was to annoy Doris. 

Miriam’s flight had given Mrs. Cheyne a fine 
opportunity for a display of wounded resignation. 
She was being gradually deserted by her children, 



2 62 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


but it was no more than she expected. Such was 
the tone she adopted. It was excessively trying to 
Doris. She was no saint, nor even gentle and 
patient by nature ; her temper was hot and hasty ; 
it was sometimes more than she could do to conquer 
it. She nerved herself for this conversation with 
her mother, she called all her forbearance to the 
front, and entered her mother’s room with a cheerful 
expression on her face. Mrs. Cheyne had just had 
tea, and was placid and resigned. 

* Where have you been, Doris ? ’ she asked. ‘ Have 
you had tea ? * 

‘ Yes, dear mamma ; I had tea out to-day/ she 
said, almost gaily. 

Mrs. Cheyne looked mystified. 

{ Tea out ! With whom ? Do you know any one 
in the town ? * 

Doris sat down by her mother’s side, and looked 
into her face with something of anxiety in her own. 

‘ Dear mother, I must have quite a long talk with 
you. I have done such a lot of business to-day. I 
hope you will approve of it all/ 

‘ What kind of business ? Pray don’t keep me in 
suspense, child/ said Mrs. Cheyne, a trifle sharply. 


WA YS AND MEANS, 263 

‘ About this house, in the first place. You know 
it will be impossible for us to remain in it.’ 

‘ I suppose so, but what can we do ? They will 
not take it off our hands.’ 

‘ No, but we could let it furnished.* 

Mrs. Cheyne shook her head. 

‘No easy task out of the season, Doris. . And it 
isn’t well furnished . 1 

‘ Mamma, I have got a tenant who on my recom- 
mendation will pay us sixty pounds a year for it,’ 
said Doris with a little natural triumph ; and she 
drew the bright sovereigns from her pocket, and 
counted them out on the table. 

‘ Dear me ! How did you manage that ? But 
what will become of us ? ’ 

‘ I have ventured to take a dear little cottage by 
the lake-side, where you and I can be very com- 
fortable, and Kitty has got a situation, and Josephine 
will earn something soon, I hope, and we will be 
very comfortable, dear mamma, and very happy too, 
though our house is so very small,’ cried Doris ; and 
tears welled in her eyes out of the earnestness of her 
heart. 

A wonderfully softened expression stole into the 


264 & ORIS CHE YNE. 

face of Mrs. Cheyne. She patted Doris kindly on 
the arm. 

‘ My dear, you are a brave, thoughtful girl. You 
have taken a load off my mind/ she said, very gently 
for her. 

Doris slid down to the floor, and folding her hands 
on her mother’s knee, looked up with indescribable 
pathos into her face. 

* Dear mamma, if sometimes I have seemed 
undutiful to you, or unmindful of your wishes, pray 
forgive me. It is very hard to know sometimes 
what to do, but I would lay down my life for you, 
dear mamma. There will be nothing too hard or 
unpleasant for me to do if only you will love me a 
little. I have felt it so hard to be shut out of your 
heart/ 

‘ My dear, I was acting for your welfare, and 
though I still regret very much that your views of 
duty differed so much from mine, I do not wish to 
say any more about it, said Mrs. Cheyne, kindly 
enough, yet with dignity. ‘ I believe you are anxious 
to help in every way ; and I am quite pleased with 
what you have done to-day. I shall endeavour to 
be contented in the poor little place you speak of, 


WAYS AND MEANS. 265 

though it will be so different from anything to which 
I have been accustomed/ 

Doris rose from her knees with a dull, aching 
pain at her heart. Her mother’s tone was perfectly 
kind, but it said as plainly as possible that she was 
not yet forgiven for refusing Mr. Hardwicke. The 
momentary gleam which had fallen sunnily across 
the path was quenched in the shadow. Nothing she 
could do, or ever hope to do, would atone to her 
mother for that past opposition to her cherished 
wish. Doris did not feel angry or bitter, but a dull 
hopelessness seemed to encompass her. 

Evidently it was intended that her web of life 
should be of sober grey threads, the brightness was 
for other more highly favoured beings. Doris 
resolved quietly to accept her destiny, and to work 
and strive hour by hour without seeking to look 
ahead, and above all to try and keep down any 
feeling of envy or bitterness which might seek into 
her heart. The inner life of this girl, the tumults, 
and yearnings, and sufferings of her soul, are common 
to many young pilgrims, awaking on the threshold 
of life to its realities and responsibilities. It is a 

critical time in a young life, and generally gives the 

23 


266 


BORIS CBEYNE. 


keynote to the whole tenor of its future. It is very 
well if there be a trusted, wise, and loving friend 
to advise in such a crisis, thus saving the young 
traveller from many pitfalls, and sparing him or her 
many hitter hours. 

My Doris, however, was quite alone, and these 
solitary smugglings with her inner self, as well as 
with outer hardships, were making a grand, strong, 
self - reliant woman of her. But on some natures 
it would have had an opposite effect. It is a sweet 
thought that God knows what is best for us all, 
and will never try us beyond our capability for 
endurance. 

The ensuing week was a very busy one for Doris. 
Kitty had to be got away to her new home, which 
entailed some work both with head and hands. The 
house on Saturday night was very dull without her 
bright presence ; Doris wondered how she should 
get along without her sympathetic companion. 
Josephine’s indolent habits had certainly made her 
health suffer. She never went out of doors except 
under compulsion, and the want of exercise made 
her languid and feeble. She constantly complained 
of headaches, and when Doris, grown weary at times 


WAYS AND MEANS. 


267 


of her perpetual grumblings, told her plainly she 
could not be well unless she exerted herself, she 
would sulk for several days, which made the 
atmosphere of the house very unpleasant. She 
was horrified to hear where their new home was 
to be, but refrained from any comment, except that 
conveyed by a shrug of her shoulders, which was 
expressive enough. 

‘Josephine, don’t you think you might get some 
plaques and Easter cards to paint ? * said Doris, 
when they were sitting round the fire after Kitty 
had left. * I asked Mr. Hopkinson to-day, and he 
says he would be glad to have some for his windows. 
They generally sell well — the plaques, I mean; of 
course it is too early yet for Easter cards, but if you 
send them in early you have more chance of getting 
them sold.’ 

‘ It is most degrading to think of working to such 
as Hopkinson — a common shopkeeper — for money/ 
said Josephine, with a curl of the lip. ‘But I 
suppose it is stern necessity now. You may bring 
me home some if you like, and I’ll try what I can 
do. I have seen frightful daubs in his window. If 
they sell, surely mine wilL But I won’t go and 


268 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


bargain with him, Doris. You seem to enjoy it, so 
you may do that part of it.’ 

The tone of Josephine’s remarks was rather 
irritating, but Doris was too intent upon interesting 
her to mind it. 

‘ You might make some little sketches of Derwent- 
water when spring comes in, or Skiddaw just now 
with his white nightcap would make a lovely picture,’ 
she said enthusiastically. * I only wish I had your 
talent, I should be rich in no time.’ 

* No, you shouldn’t ; you couldn’t paint whenever 
you like, any more than a poet can make poems to 
order,’ said Josephine calmly. ‘ You should have to 
wait for inspiration.’ 

* I’d rather make inspiration wait for me. If one 
has a gift, it should be one’s servant and not one’s 
master,’ said Doris meditatively. ‘ The only way to 
accomplish good and thorough work is to have some 
kind of method.* 

* Oh, you are too dreadfully practical ! * cried 
Josephine, with a yawn. ‘ I do think Miriam might 
have written to us by this time. I shall be dying of 
curiosity to hear her adventures.* 

‘ I don’t think we shall hear from her for a long 


WA YS AND MEANS. 269 

time/ said Doris ; then she thought of 'YVindridge, 
and relapsed into silence. 

She had kept his confidence to herself ; she had 
not breathed to any his intention to seek out Miriam. 
Josephine condescended to go out with Doris about 
the furnishing of the new home ; and to make some 
very impracticable suggestions, one of which was that 
they should get a wing added to the cottage to make 
a drawing-room with a studio for her use above. 
Doris listened patiently to these stupid remarks, and 
made her own choice of articles, cheap and plain, to 
suit the state of her purse. Then the treasures had 
to be removed from Mrs. Cheyne’s room at Sunbury 
Villa, and altogether Doris had a great deal of 
running to and fro and real hard work before the 
place was set in order. She had not quite the same 
heart over it as she had had in making Sunbury 
Villa home-like for her mother, for somehow there 
was a fearful uncertainty about their way of life now ; 
they had really nothing to depend upon. Doris was 
indeed living from day to day by faith, not by sight. 

Sometimes when a nervousness came over her in 
thinking about their future, she would steal away 
down to the lake-side, and in that sweet solitude 


270 DORIS CHEYNE. 

regain her peace of mind. God seemed near her 
there ; she felt sometimes as if some unseen strong 
presence was close at her side. It was a wonderful 
thing how utterly Doris had become dependent on 
Higher help ; without that clinging and trustful 
faith, which was not indeed natural to her, but had 
been born of harsh experience and absolute need, she 
would certainly have been in despair. 

The second morning after their removal to their 
new house, a basket of fruit and flowers and game 
came from the Manor — a gift which touched Doris, 
and made her very grateful. It was like a reminder 
that an old friend had not forgotten them. Mr. 
Hardwicke continued to send such occasional remem- 
brances to the cottage, but he never came himself. 
He was duly realizing the depth of his disappoint- 
ment, and he felt it better not to see. Doris at all — 
at least for a time. 

A parcel of cards and terra-cotta plaques duly 
came up from Hopkinson’s, and Josephine, like a 
child over a new toy, set to work, and with exquisite 
results. She was a genius with the brush. They 
were exhibited in the stationer’s window, and found 
ready purchasers. With the money, Josephine 


IV A YS AND MEANS. 


271 


purchased herself an elegant and expensive winter 
wrap, and gave the surplus, a few shillings, to Doris 
to help with the housekeeping. She made a half- 
apology for it, saying she suffered so dreadfully from 
the cold, and promised to give up the whole next 
time. But that time never came, for she only worked 
by fits and starts, and when any money came in, she 
was always in desperation for some new article of 
dress. Doris did not know what to do. It seemed 
of no use to speak to Josephine, and after a time it 
became a question what they were to eat and drink. 

Doris had not called at Sunbury Villa to see Mrs. 
Boothroyd ; but one afternoon, about the middle of 
February, when their straits were weighing upon her, 
she bethought herself of the dear lady, and became 
possessed of a desire to see her. 

She found her at home in the little room where 
Mrs. Cheyne had chiefly lived during her residence 
at the villa, and received a kind and cordial welcome. 

‘ I should scold you, my dear, for being so tardy 
in coming, but I am so glad to see you that I have 
not the heart,’ she said blithesomely. ‘ Do take off 
your hat and let me look at you. I do like the 
house so much. This little room is a perfect gem ; 


272 


DORIS CHEYNE . 


and do you know that, in addition to the lake and the 
hills, I can see the smoke of your cottage chimney. Had 
I been able, I should have come to see you long ago.’ 

Doris took off her hat, and sat down in a low 
rocking-chair, with a strange sense of relief and rest 
stealing over her. 

The atmosphere of this room, though it was an 
invalid’s home, was very different from that at the 
cottage. It seemed to Doris’s exaggerated ideas just 
then that it breathed of heaven. 

‘ My dear, you look tired and worn, and much thinner 
than when I saw you last. Has care grown heavier ? ’ 

Doris nodded. Her heart was full. Had she 
spoken, she must have broken down, as before, in 
Mrs. Boothroyd’s presence. 

* Perhaps you would rather not speak of it just 
now. Some time, I hope, you will be able to trust 
me fully,’ said the invalid brightly. * Sit and rest, 
my dear, and I shall look at you and talk to you 
about myself. I am so glad I was suited with a 
house in Keswick, Miss Cheyne. These hills are per- 
petual companions to me. I study them as I might 
study a book, and I am always learning from them. 
There is only one thing I feel I want sometimes. 5 


WAYS AND MEANS. 


273 

* What is that ? ’ Doris asked, in a quiet, dreamy 
way. She was resting, listening to that sweet, 
sympathetic voice ; looking on the bright yet peaceful 
face, she forgot for a moment her many cares. 

4 Some one to talk to when I am in the mood. 
Some one to read to me when my own eyes are tired, 
as they are too often ; some one to relieve me a 
little of the care of the house, and to see that the 
necessary work is done. My young servant is 
willing, but she is thoughtless. I have not just 
full reliance upon her. I was thinking only this 
morning that if the mild weather continued, I should 
come down and ask you if you knew of any young 
lady, or middle-aged lady, who might have a few hours 
to spare, and would be willing to come to me.’ 

Doris sat up suddenly, and her face flushed all 
over. 

4 Dear Mrs. Boothroyd, take me ! I will do the 
best I can ; and we are almost in need/ she said, in 
a half-choking voice. 

4 Come here, Doris/ 

Doris rose and knelt down by the invalid's couch. 

4 God sent you to me to-day. I need you, my 
dear. We will be a help and comfort to each other 1* 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

DAWNING LIGHT. 

‘ And from the field of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended — 
Charity, meekness, love and hope, and forgiveness and patience.’ 

Longfellow. 

HS was sitting alone by the fire on the 
evening of Christmas day. Mrs. Cheyne 
had gone to London on a visit to Uncle 
Penfold and Rosamond ; Josephine and Kitty, the 
latter home for Christmas, were dining with Mrs. 
Boothroyd. They had all been asked, but Doris, 
suffering from severe headache and cold, had been 
obliged to send an excuse, much against her will. 
An evening spent at Sunbury Villa with Mrs. 
Boothroyd was a delightful experience, as Doris 
knew. Yet she had enjoyed her quiet afternoon, 
lying in an unusual luxury of idleness on the sofa 
in the firelit room, with only her own thoughts for 



DA WNING LIGHT. 


275 

companions, and the half-sad, half-sweet fields of 
memory for a background for the present. The days 
were brighter now for the Cheynes, the worst of 
their straits seemed to be past. A year had elapsed 
since they had removed to the cottage at the lake- 
side, and it was already very dear to Doris. She 
had been very happy in it, although she had spent 
some sad hours in it too. She had found a true 
friend in Mrs. Boothroyd, and was to her almost like 
a daughter. These two women loved each other as 
well as it is possible to ■ love in this world. Doris 
knew she was of use to Mrs. Boothroyd, and had no 
foolish pride in accepting payment for her work. 
She was therefore the mainstay of the establishment, 
though Kitty paid the rent out of her salary. 
Nobody in the wide world could be happier than 
Kitty Cheyne at Oakhill. It was easy to see that 
in her bright and sweet face. Doris wondered to 
herself sometimes, with a quiet smile, how much a 
certain neighbouring squire, Mrs. Hesketh’s brother, 
had to do with Kitty’s unutterable content. There 
was a bright future in store for Kitty, for which 
Doris’s heart overflowed with deep thankfulness. 

During the year Josephine had done work by fits 


276 DORIS CHEYNE. 

and starts, making sufficient to keep herself elegantly 
dressed and help a little ; with that Doris had to be 
content. Josephine was not strong, and was by 
nature indolent. Doris was very lenient with her 
even in thought. So long as she could earn enough 
to keep them in plain comfort, she would never be 
hard on others. Mrs. Cheyne’s visit to London was 
a Christmas gift from Doris. She saw that her 
mother needed a change of some sort, and she was 
anxious about her health. Mrs. Cheyne’s ailments 
had become real instead of imaginary, but, curious to 
tell, as her health gave way her spirits seemed to 
improve, and she became gentle and bright and 
cheerful, so that Doris had very much to be thankful 
for. Nothing had been heard from or of Miriam 
since her flight ; her name was never mentioned at 
the cottage, but Doris knew that her mother was 
silently anxious and distressed about her. Doris 
had many a thought about Miriam too ; and many 
a silent prayer arose from her true heart for her 
sister’s welfare. 

She was thinking of Miriam that evening, when 
a smart double knock came to the door. She sprang 
up and ran to open it, and what was her astonish- 


DA WNING LIGHT. 


277 


ment to see Windridge on the step ! Her heart 
warmed at sight of him, and her colour heightened. 
She had only once seen him since they left the villa, 
and he had then found no clue to Miriam. 

4 A merry Christmas to you,’ she said gaily. 
‘Come in, I am all alone. Had I been well, I 
should have been out too. I am glad something 
kept me in ; it is so great a pleasure to see you/ 

Windridge hung up his coat and followed her into 
the little sitting-room without a word. Then he 
took a long look at her, as if to satisfy himself that she 
was well. It was such a look as a man casts on 
what is very dear to him. Windridge did not know 
he was so deeply interested in Doris ; he imagined 
himself in love with Miriam. He was cherishing a 
memory of what had been, and what would never 
come to life again. We can so delude ourselves 
sometimes, and thus make serious mistakes, for 
which we have to pay very dearly. Doris lit the 
candles on the mantleshelf, and then looked at 
Windridge with a smile. She was pleased to see 
him : he was her friend, of whom she often thought. 
He had grown more manly-looking, and his face was 
that of a good, true man, who found life a thing of 


278 DORIS CHEYNE. 

real earnest. He thought Doris changed, though he 
did not say so. She seemed to have grown taller, 
more slender, more womanly and dignified in appear- 
ance. Her face was very thin, and dark-coloured as 
of old, but her eyes were still as luminous, kind, and 
true. She was a plain woman to look at, — even those 
who loved her best could not insist on any physical 
beauty in her ; but she had what is more valuable 
than beauty — an unselfish, loving heart, a sweet and 
noble soul. Windridge felt the influence of her 
presence that night as he had often felt it before, 
and honoured her above women. He loved her too, 
but did not know it. 

‘You are tired, I think. I see you have been 
lying down/ he said gently. ‘ Do not let me disturb 
you. I can sit here and talk to you.’ 

‘Hot tired, only lazy. I have had an idle, 
delicious time. Did you know mamma had gone 
to London ? Kitty is here. She and Josephine 
have gone to dine at our old home, Sunbury Villa ; 
you know Mrs. Boothroyd, our tenant, is our very 
dear friend ? * 

‘ Ho ; I did not know/ said Windridge, and waited 
to hear what she had to tell. He had news, 


DA WNING LIGHT. 


279 


important news, but he wanted to hear Doris speak 
first. It gave him a strange, sweet pleasure to listen 
to her voice giving him her free sisterly confidence. 

He had not many friends, and was miserly over 
those he had. 

‘Yes, she is our dear friend/ said Doris, nodding 
brightly. ‘ The girls will have a happy evening, and 
will meet Mrs. Boothroyd’s nephew, who was to 
arrive yesterday from India to spend a few weeks 
with her. Kitty is still at Oakhill, and very happy. 
Dear child, it makes my heart glad to know she is 
so thoroughly at home there/ 

Windridge was touched by the manner in which 
Doris spoke of the others. It was almost motherly 
in its tone. And she was so young, life ought to be 
all sunshine for her yet. 

‘ I have heard of Miss Kitty/ said Windridge, with 
a smile. ‘ I know young Barnett of Barnes Edge, 
Mrs. Hesketh’s brother/ 

Doris laughed too, and there was no more said ; 
both understood what was meant. 

‘ I do think it is the most wonderful thing in the 
world how paths have been opened up for our 
feet, Dr. Windridge/ said Doris dreamily. ‘For a 


280 


DORIS CHE VIVE. 


long time I seemed to be walking blindfolded along 
a very rocky road, on which I stumbled at every 
step. But my very helplessness made me depend so 
utterly on a higher power ; and I have been amazed 
at the strength I have received. Do you know, I 
would not give the past two years of my life even 
for all that went before it? I have learned so very 
many precious lessons/ 

* And while learning you have taught others,’ said 
Windridge earnestly. ‘ You have taught me what I 
trust has made me a better man/ 

Doris blushed. She was sensitive to praise. 

‘ Tell me about yourself. I hear a great deal, you 
know, of the good being done in Grasmere. Very 
many call you friend. But I like to hear of your 
life and work from your own lips/ 

‘ There is not much to tell,’ said Windridge. Then 
a little nervousness came upon him, and rising, he 
walked twice across the floor. 

' I have just returned from London, Miss Doris/ he 
said, quite abruptly at length ; ‘ I have seen your sister/ 
Doris started, and grew very pale, while her fine 
eyes asked the question her lips feared to frame. She 
did not know how it might be with Miriam. 


DA WNING LIGHT 


281 


‘She is well. She asked me to take you her 
love.’ 

Windridge felt keenly at having to deliver the 
brief cold message. Doris felt it too. Miriam had 
not acted well by them. 

‘What is she about?’ she asked tremblingly. 
‘ Tell me all you know. It will at least end the 
suspense we have so long endured/ 

‘ It was by an accident I discovered a clue, or my 
errand would probably have been as futile as it was last 
time/ said Windridge. ‘ I saw her in the street, and 
took the liberty of following her to what I supposed 
to be her home. It was a good house in Cecil Street, 
Strand. I waited about ten minutes, and then 
walked up to the door and asked for Miss Cheyne. 
I was shown into a room, and in a few minutes she 
came to me. She was very much surprised to see 
me, I could see/ he continued, after a momentary 
pause. ‘But quite indifferent. She is very much 
changed, Miss Doris.’ 

‘ In what way ? What is she doing ? ’ asked 
Doris sharply. 

‘ It is as you thought. She is preparing for the 

stage. She is in the family of a stage-manager, who 
24 


282 


EOEIS CHEYNE. 


knows it will be to bis advantage to train her. Her 
face and voice will ensure her success. She had just 
returned from a four months’ sojourn in Italy, where 
she had been under some of the best masters. She 
is to make her cUbut, she told me, in the spring of 
next year, about three months hence. She would 
not tell me very much, Miss Doris, but I think she 
has had a hard struggle. She has been giving as 
well as receiving lessons in music and singing. She 
asked for you all. I thought there were tears in 
her eyes when she spoke of you, but I might have 
been mistaken. She bade me tell you, you should 
hear of her in spring.’ 

Doris was silent a moment, relieved yet cast down. 
There seemed to be a great gulf fixed between 
Miriam and home. 

‘ Dr. Windridge, did you speak to her about 
coming back ? ’ asked Doris hesitatingly. 

‘No, I did not, I saw it would be useless. Her 
heart is in her work. You should have seen her 
eyes kindle when she spoke of the spring. I believe 
she will be a grand success.* 

Doris sighed. 

‘It is a strange, unreal world to live in, Dr. 


DA WNING LIGHT. 283 

Windridge. Miriam may be successful, but how can 
she be happy ? Mere satisfied ambition will not 
satisfy her. If she thinks so, she will find out her 
grievous mistake/ 

* She is excited already over the prospect. Should 
any unforeseen circumstance mar her success, it will 
be a fearful disappointment to her/ 

* Do you think if you had asked her she would 
not have come back ? * Doris ventured to ask again. 
She had accustomed herself to the idea of Miriam 
being restored through Windridge, and for his sake, 
find it had ceased to contain any sting for her. 

Windridge shook his head. There was a slight 
impatience in the gesture and in the look which 
accompanied it. 

‘ I think I made a mistake, Miss Doris. Miriam 
would never be happy with me/ 

‘I am very sorry, Dr. Windridge/ Doris said 
quietly. 

4 You need not be, I am not at all sorry for 
myself. I am perfectly happy/ he said, with a short 
laugh, which jarred a little on Doris’s ear. 

She was silent a little, and then began to talk of 
something else. But there seemed to be a slight 


284 DORIS CHEYJS/E. 

constraint between them. Doris did not know how 
or why it should be. 

His visit was not prolonged. He had work 
awaiting him at home, he said, but had made the 
time to bring her tidings of Miriam. 

‘ I thank you ; you have relieved my mind of a 
great uncertainty. My mother will thank you too,’ 
said Doris, as she stood up to bid him good-bye. 

‘ There is no need for thanks. I satisfied myself 
by going, but it was for your sake, Doris,’ Windridge 
said ; and with that enigmatical speech abruptly left. 
Doris felt rather depressed in spirits as she lay down 
on the sofa again ; the pleasant relations between 
Windridge and herself seemed to be disturbed. She 
did pot know that they were wholly destroyed, that 
they could never be renewed. 

She was thinking over these things when she 
heard the chatter of many voices at the gate, 
mingled with the deeper tones of a man’s voice; 
Mrs. Boothroyd’s nephew had brought the girls home. 
They came into the house by and by, both radiant 
Josephine with an unusually brilliant colour, and a 
brightness in her whole demeanour which surprised 
Doris. They threw off their wraps, and clustered 


DAWNING LIGHT. 285 

about the fire to tell Doris all about the events of 
the evening. Charlie Boothroyd, Mrs. Boothroyd’s 
nephew, was splendid, Kitty said, so full of fun and 
nonsense. He was coming to see Doris to-morrow. 
It was Kitty who chattered most. 

Josephine had little to say. 

* I am -going to bed, I am as sleepy as can be/ she 
said. ‘ That whist was rather slow/ 

‘Hear her!’ laughed Kitty. ‘Why, hadn’t you 
Mr. Boothroyd for your partner, and didn’t he lose 
the rubber twice because he was more intent on 
admiring you than looking at his cards ? ’ 

‘You are an absurd thing, Kitty Cheyne/ said 
Josephine with dignity, but with visibly heightened 
colour. Doris smiled, and looked admiringly at 
Josephine. She looked so handsome and stately in 
her black velvet robe, with her fair hair coiled round 
her shapely head, and the bunch of scarlet geraniums 
lending their bloom to her cheek. Josephine might 
have a brilliant future before her, after all. 

‘I do think Charlie Boothroyd — he is such a 
ridiculously funny fellow, always making jokes — has 
fallen in love with Josephine/ said Kitty confi- 
dentially, the moment they were alone. ‘ She looked 


286 


DORIS CIIEYNE. 


splendid to-night, you know, and was so agreeable. 
She has promised to skate with him on Bassenthwaite 
to-morrow, if the ice is good. How nice Mrs. 
Boothroyd is, Doris, and how she loves you ! * 

Doris smiled. She knew that to be true. 

‘ I have had a visitor, Kitty ; Gabriel Windridge 
has been here. He came to tell me he had found 
Miriam.’ 

* Oh ! ’ cried Kitty breathlessly. * What is she 
doing ? * 

In a few words Doris acquainted her with the 
particulars Windridge had brought, and the sisters 
talked far into the night, rather sorrowfully, about 
their sister. She seemed to be so far away from 
them ; they could hardly hope ever to see her again. 
Kitty had her confidence to bestow too. She had 
promised to become the mistress of Barnes Edge, and 
when Mrs. Cheyne returned home, George Barnett 
was to journey to Keswick to ask formal sanction to 
their betrothal. 




CHAPTEE XIX. 

NEW PEOSPECTS. 

HE EE really doesn’t seem to be any 
medium for us/ said Mrs. Cheyne. ‘ We 
are either overwhelmed with misfortune, 
or surrounded with a great many blessings at once. 
I hope I accept both in a meek, thankful spirit/ 

Her tone of voice was very satisfied; Mrs. 
Cheyne was at peace with herself and all the world. 

Doris looked up with a smile from a letter she 
was writing to Eosamond. They were alone 
together in their little sitting-room, which was 
filled with the radiance of the setting sun. It was 
February now, the rays were mild and fine, a tinge 
of greenness and bright spring promise was over all 
the waking earth. It was a time of hope. Doris 
was very happy in these early spring days, her 

287 




288 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


being was always touched by the spirit of nature ; 
and she especially loved the daybreak of the year. 

1 What is it now, mamma ? What special bless- 
ing or misfortune are you talking of ? * 

‘ Oh, nothing in particular. I am very much 
pleased with Kitty’s choice, Doris. George Barnett 
really is a fine young man. And such a good 
property ! It is really wonderful how Providence 
has dealt with my fatherless girls/ 

Doris looked out upon the golden waters of the 
lake shimmering in the setting sun, and her eyes 
had a far-off, dreamy expression in their depths. 

‘ No sooner is it all so satisfactorily settled about 
her, than I have another pleasant surprise,’ continued 
Mrs. Cheyne, not heeding Doris’s silence. ‘ I don’t 
suppose, now, you have noticed Charlie Boothroyd’s 
devotion to Josephine.’ 

* Indeed I have ; long before you came home, 
mother,’ laughed Doris. * It does not take very 
keen vision to see that.’ 

4 1 hope he will speak before he goes away. If 
he insists on taking Josephine away to India, I 
should think it my duty to go with her, Doris/ 

* Oh, mother ! ’ 


NE W PROSPECTS. 


289 


‘Don’t look so surprised. She is not strong, and 
it would be a shame to allow her to go to that 
strange land alone.’ 

* But if she goes with Mr. Boothroyd, she cannot 
need any one else,’ Doris ventured to say. 

* Doris, though you are never likely to be married, 
I assure you, that though you had a husband 
to-morrow, he would never fill a mother’s place,’ said 
Mrs. Cheyne severely. * Besides, the climate would 
suit me. I feel the winters here really too trying.* 

Doris wore a perplexed expression. Her mother, 
with the customary fertility of her imagination, had 
already arranged the whole affair; and no doubt 
had already settled the question of outfit and other 
items. 

Her busy brain had found a new channel in which 
to work. And Charlie had not, so far as any of 
them knew, even hinted of his hopes to Josephine. 

‘ From what I have seen of him, I think him very 
generous, and of course he is rich,’ said Mrs. Cheyne. 
* I have spoken to Josephine about it. She says she 
would not care to go to India without me.* 

Doris was silent, not caring to express her 

thoughts. To her it seemed a strange thing to 

25 


290 


DORIS CIIEYNE. 


discuss as settled a matter which might never become 
a fact. It jarred upon her, but she did not say so. 

Her thoughts wandered so much that she could 
not fix her mind on Eosie’s letter : she was looking 
dreamily out of the window, when she saw Charlie 
Boothroyd and Josephine coming up the lane. 
Josephine’s hand was on his arm, her face was 
flushed, her eyes bright and sparkling, while he had 
that happy, conscious look characteristic of the 
accepted lover. Doris saw how it was, and gathering 
up her writing materials, fled before they came in. 

Just as they joined Mrs. Cheyne in the sitting- 
room, Doris, with her hat and gloves in her hand, 
slipped out by the back-door, and hastily dressing 
there, went off by a roundabout way to Sunbury 
Villa. They would be better without her just then 
at the cottage. 

Mrs. Boothroyd, now a little stronger, was sitting at 
the dining-room window when Doris came to the door. 

4 Come, my dear. Did some little bird whisper of 
my loneliness to you ? ’ she said heartily. ‘ Charlie’s 
visit was supposed to be to me, but an old aunt has 
no attraction in comparison with a beautiful young 
lady. I had my day once, so I must not grumble.’ 


NEW PROSPECTS. 


291 


Doris laughed, but her eyes were grave and even 
troubled. She sat down on a stool at the fire, while 
Mrs. Boothroyd took her own lounging chair on the rug. 
* Is Charlie at your house, Doris ? ’ 

'Yes ! Josephine and he came in together just as 
I came out. It was because of them, indeed, that I 
came out. I thought they might wish to speak to 
mother,’ said Doris, with a tremulous smile. 

'You were quite right. Charlie spoke to me 
frankly and unreservedly to-day, and went from me 
to Josephine. How did they look ? Do you think 
she will say " Yes ” ? * 

' I think she has,’ answered Doris. 

' And are you pleased ? You look very serious 
over it. Have you any objections to my boy ? ’ 
asked Mrs. Boothroyd playfully. 

' Oh, none ! I like him very much. I hope 
Josephine will make him happy.’ 

' He is going to ask a strong proof of her love, 
Doris. He wishes her to return to Calcutta with 
him as his wife within a month.’ 

' If Josephine loves him, that is a very little 
thing to grant. It should not cost her any thought,* 
Doris answered. 


292 


DORIS CIIEYNE. 


‘ That is how you would act, Doris. You would 
give all unreservedly, or nothing. He will be a 
happy man who wins you ,’ said Mrs. Boothroyd, 
looking keenly into the girl’s grave face. Doris heard 
her, but she was not thinking of herself at the moment. 

* Are you pleased with your nephew’s choice, Mrs. 
Boothroyd?’ she asked suddenly, in that straight- 
forward fashion of hers. 

4 What shall I say, that I would have been better 
pleased had it fallen on you ? But Josephine is a 
charming girl. She will make a fine Anglo-Indian. 
I fear the languor and enforced idleness of Indian 
life would not suit you, my most active and practical 
of maidens. Charlie is devotedly attached to her ; 
there is no doubt of that. I do not, as a rule, 
approve of hasty marriages, but exceptions are to be 
admitted. I think they will be very happy.’ 

* Mrs. Boothroyd, mamma was speaking of it to 
me to-night. She would like to go with Josephine. 
The climate, I know, would suit her admirably; 
Dr. Windridge said so long ago. What would you 
think of that ? * 

‘ I would approve of it ; so would Charlie, I am 
sure. He spoke of that too. It would leave you 


NEW PROSPECTS. 


293 


alone, Doris — and a selfish joy took possession of me. 
There will be no alternative for you, then, my lady, 
but to come to me. Could you make your home 
here, Doris ? * 

* I have made it already/ Doris answered quietly ; 
but still her eyes were troubled, her manner grave 
and preoccupied. 

4 Will you lend me five pounds, Mrs. Boothroyd V 
she asked suddenly. 

* Surely, twice five, if you like, my child/ 

* At once — to-night, would you let me have it ? * 

* This moment, if you like. My desk is up-stairs, 
there are my keys, go and get the money for your- 
self/ 

* How absolutely you trust me ! * said Doris, smiling, 
as she took the keys in her hand. * Will you not 
even ask what I want with the money ? * 

‘ You will tell me, dear, if you wish me to know/ 

‘I will tell you. I am going to London to- 
morrow/ 

* To see Miriam ? * 

* Yes/ 

‘I am not surprised. I expected you to have 
gone long ago/ 


294 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


‘ 1 have thought of it since Dr. Windridge told 
me about her. Had she expressed any desire to 
see us, I should have gone long ago. She has never 
even been at Uncle Penf old’s, though she knows 
Bosamond is there/ 

* She must be a strange, cold being/ said Mrs. 
Boothroyd musingly. ‘Then why do you wish to 
see her now ? ’ 

* I wish to see for myself how it is with her. She 
might have need of me, Mrs. Boothroyd. If mamma 
should decide to go to India, my first duty would be 
removed ; but if Miriam succeeds in the life she has 
planned for herself, it might be my duty to try and 
make a home for her if she will let me. She will have 
need of it, if I mistake not. She will find even fame 
and fortune fearfully empty and hollow things. And 
unless she has some softening influences about her, 
she will become hardened and proud. I am very 
anxious about her, Mrs. Boothroyd. My heart is 
like to break when I think of her/ 

‘ God bless you, Doris. You have, indeed, been 
the good angel of your family/ 

‘ Oh, no ! What I do is very, very little. I can 
only work with my hands, and I have met with 


NE IV PROSPECTS, 


295 

many kind friends. Who would have been so 
generous as you ? I am deeply in your debt, but I 
am presuming enough not to mind it at all. It is 
easy to be indebted to those we love.’ 

‘ There can be no question of indebtedness 
between you and me, Doris,* said Mrs. Boothroyd. 
‘But you will at least promise me one thing, that 
if your sister should not need you — she may marry, 
you know — you will come to me.* 

‘ I will.’ 

‘ Then we understand each other. I will give 
way to Miriam, but to no other. Kitty, dear 
child, will soon have her own happy home. If she 
wants you there, you don’t go, unless on a visit.’ 

Doris laughed. 

‘ I would not approve of living on my brother-in- 
law, however good he might be. I could be of no 
use to them, but I can be of use to you.’ 

* Will you never marry, Doris ? ’ 

‘No.’ 

Doris answered calmly, and without embarrass- 
ment. 

‘ How can you be certain ? * 

‘ I cannot, of course, be quite certain, but there 


DORIS CHE YNE. 


296 

is hardly a possibility of such a thing. Shall I go 
up, then, and play havoc among your gold ? * 

4 By and by. Kitty told me last night about Mr. 
Hardwicke, Doris. I felt that I ought not to have 
allowed her to tell the story. Had you wished me 
to know, you would have told me.* 

Doris coloured slightly. 

‘ It was not my secret alone, Mrs. Boothroyd, else 
I would have told you. To me it is not only 
incomprehensible, but wrong, for a woman to betray 
a man’s confidence. I could not do so/ 

‘ You would have had a noble home, Doris, and a 
wide sphere of usefulness, had your decision been 
otherwise/ 

* Yes, but the one essential was lacking. I did 
not love the man who offered them to me. I like 
and respect Mr. Hardwicke, he has been our most 
true friend in our time of need/ 

‘Doris, I shall be sorry if you do not marry. 
A woman like you ought to have a wide sphere. 
Your sympathies and capabilities are so boundless/ 

‘ I do not know. I have always had enough to 
do. If at times I have chafed a little at the nature 
of my work, it has soon passed. There is a certain 


NEW PROSPECTS. 


297 

narrowness and monotony, you know, in mere hand- 
work in a household. I have not been without my 
yearnings after greater things, being only human/ 

* It will come in His own time, my dear/ said Mrs. 
Boothroyd. Doris nodded with a smile on her 
lips. Had she not proved beyond all doubt, through 
the vicissitudes of the past three years, that He 
doeth all things well ? 

Her heart was at rest as she walked home in the 
sweet spring dusk. She had no fear for the future, 
knowing her portion would be sure. 

She found her mother much excited, Josephine 
calm, collected, but evidently pleased. Doris having 
come home through by-paths, did not meet Charlie 
Boothroyd, who had just left. 

* I suppose you have been at Mrs. Boothroyd’s/ 
exclaimed Mrs. Cheyne breathlessly. * She knows 
all about it. We have had such a nice long talk, 
Doris. I am proud to have such a son as Charlie 
Boothroyd, so generous and kind. I told him so, 
and I think Josephine may think herself well off. 
And it’s all settled ; I am to go too. He said that 
Josephine’s mother must be his now, and I need not 
have any feeling about it ; so good and kind ! How 


2 98 DORIS CHEYNE. 

few men would take the trouble to consider such a 
tiling ! ’ 

Doris walked up to Josephine, and put her hands 
on her shoulders 

* God bless you, dear, for ever, and make you very 
happy/ she said, with a quiver in her voice. 

‘Thank you, Doris/ Josephine answered, really 
touched. ‘ Of course you must come too ; Charlie 
said so/ 

* He cannot marry the whole family/ said Doris 
merrily, though her heart was just a little sore. She 
felt outside the family circle, as if nobody had any 
longer need of her. 

* Oh, no ! It really would be nothing. Wait till 
Charlie speaks of it himself. He is so rich ! He 
has horses and carriages, and black servants and 
bungalows, and all that kind of things in abun- 
dance/ exclaimed Mrs. Clieyne incoherently. She 
was pleased and excited as a child over a new 
toy. Doris, remembering the hardship of the past 
three years, felt very tender and very compassionate 
towards her. The anxiety and troubles of these 
years must have been worse for her to bear, because 
she lacked the buoyancy of youth, which points 
perpetually to the dawn of brighter days. 


GRASMERE CHURCH 






299 






NEW PROSPECTS. 


3 01 

c We shall have a busy time of it for the next few 
weeks, then, preparing two travellers for India/ said 
Boris brightly. * We shall need all our wits about us.’ 

‘ Charlie is to come again to-morrow and give us 
all the information about outfits and such things/ 
said Josephine. * Of course we must have the very 
quietest of weddings. I was thinking how very 
dearly I should like to be married in the old church 
at Grasmere/ 

Boris felt her eyes fill. She dared not at that 
moment think of anything but the most practical 
details. 

* I forgot that there must be a wedding ! * she 
exclaimed. 4 Why, I don’t know how it is to be all 
accomplished. How soon does Mr. Boothroyd wish 
to sail ? ' 

4 He must go by the Khedive, which sails on the 
tenth of next month. We have four weeks and 
three days to prepare/ answered Josephine. 4 Miriam 
and Eosie must come down then/ 

4 Uncle Penfold will bring Eosie, of course, but I 
really do not know about Miriam/ said Mrs. Cheyne 
stiffly. 4 1 must say she has behaved in an extra- 
ordinary and unfilial fashion to me. I never injured 


3°2 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


her. Why should she disgrace me ? It is nothing 
short of disgrace for her to be living with strange 
people, and preparing for the theatre. I am glad I 
am going away. I could not have supported seeing 
her name on vulgar posters, and her photographs in 
shop windows among questionable characters/ 

‘ Mamma, I am going to London to-morrow/ said 
Doris abruptly. 

‘ Bless me, child, surprises are the order of the 
day. London ! What are you going to do there ? * 

* I wish to see Miriam. I shall stay over night 
at Uncle Penfold’s and return on Thursday, then we 
can begin to work in earnest/ 

* But you will think of going with us. Charlie 
was in earnest, Doris/ said Josephine wistfully. 

Doris smiled, but shook her head. 

* If you have mamma you will do well, dear, and 
there is Miriam, and Kitty, and Bosie. I should not 
like to leave them all/ 

‘It is a pity Kitty’s wedding had not been 
fixed. We might have had them both on one day 
and then I should have left with a lighter heart/ 
said Mrs. Cheyne. ‘ But really, Doris, if you don’t 
go to India, what will you do ?’ 


NE W PROSPECTS. 


303 


* I shall tell you, dear mother, when I come back 
from London/ Doris answered. ‘You need not fret 
about me. I shall find- a quiet corner somewhere/ 

Mrs. Cheyne sighed, thinking of Hardwicke 
Manor. 

‘ Bosie has a home for life. I never saw a child 
so content, and the old man is just devoted to her. 
Of course she will inherit all his means. And when 
she is left alone, she can come out to us. I am 
most anxious about Miriam. I don’t know what her 
poor father would have said to it. If she had 
stayed quietly with me, she might have made a 
splendid marriage. Look at Josephine and Kitty, 
and you too, Doris, for you know your chance was 
as good as either, though not good enough for you/ 
said Mrs. Cheyne complacently, just as if her virtues 
had secured these prizes for her daughters. 

There was still a little soreness in Mrs. Cheyne’s 
heart about the Hardwicke affair, indicated by a 
chance word now and again which reminded Doris of 
her shortcomings. But on the whole, Mrs. Cheyne 
had improved, and admitted freely that Doris had 
really been her mainstay and comfort since her 
husband’s death. 



CHAPTER XX. 

HER PLACE. 

Too much rest is rust.’ — S ir Walter Scott. 

H8 was sitting alone in the window of 
the drawing-room at Sunbury Villa, on 
the evening of a sunny June day. Her 
face, though grave and thoughtful, wore an expression 
of peace. She was at home and at rest ; for the 
first time for years, no sordid care had reached her 
heart. A year and more had gone since Mrs. 
Cheyne and Josephine had set sail for India; Kitty 
was now happily married ; Rosamond still making 
the sunshine of life for the old man in London; 
Miriam had reached the height of her ambition; 
Doris was alone, but she had her quiet work to do. 
If at times a sense of narrowness, a little weariness 
of the perfect rest and sweet monotonous ease of 

304 



HER PLACE. 


305 


her life oppressed her, she put it away with self- 
reproach, as disloyal to the kind, true friend who 
had given her so true a home in her hour of need. 

Doris was now six -and -twenty, and looked her 
years to the full. She had lived so much during 
the early womanhood, that she even felt much older. 
She had fought a hard battle ; she had been face to 
face with the stern question of mere existence ; she 
had had to solve the problem of how and where 
even daily bread was to be obtained. Such experi- 
ences must leave their trace, both physically and 
mentally. The soldier who has been in the thickest 
of the strife, takes a different view of it from him 
who has only read of it in song or story. Doris 
had known the very depths of anxious care, she had 
lived through days of almost intolerable uncertainty, 
and now, when such things could not come near her 
any more, she felt at times the lack of some 
stimulating energy to give a relish to existence. 
The companionship of a solitary woman, the 
sweet, dull routine of the quiet life at the villa, 
was not for Doris Cheyne. Before she had 
been six months with Mrs. Boothroyd, that keen- 
eyed woman saw it all clearly. But she didn’t 
26 


3 o6 DORIS CHEYNE. 

know how to act; she loved Doris as a daughter, 
and could scarcely bear the thought of parting from 
her ; besides, where could she go ? Mrs. Boothroyd 
spent many hours thinking over the question, and 
at length was compelled to leave it where she had 
left all other cares, and simply asked that some 
work might be given Doris to do. 

She had never broached the subject to Doris. 
The girl did not even know that her friend was 
aware of the slight feeling of discontent which 
sometimes troubled her. Doris did her duty 
faithfully, relieving Mrs. Boothroyd of every house- 
hold care ; hut housekeeping at Sunbury Villa was 
very different from her first experience of it under 
the same roof. Doris was not sure that she did 
not regretfully recall the old days as happier than 
these. Then every energy, every faculty was on 
the alert, every day had its special little difficulty to 
overcome. Now she had nothing to do but say, 
and it was done. Money was plentiful, there was 
no need for plannings to secure little comforts at 
the expense of her own ; every desire she had was 
gratified, and still Doris was not content. It was 
a life of ease ; hut having tasted that strange, fearful 


HER PLACE. 


3°7 


joy which only those know who have struggled in 
the rugged ways of poverty, Doris looked back upon 
it with regret. She was not a perfect woman, but 
a faulty human being, who, like many another in 
this world, did not seem to appreciate the blessings 
by which she was surrounded. 

She had a piece of sewing in her hand, upon 
which her eyes and fingers were intent, though her 
thoughts were weaving a strange web, in which the 
threads of past, present, and future were strangely 
commingled. Mrs. Boothroyd had gone to lie down, 
being tired with the heat. Doris felt oppressed, 
too, by the sultriness of the air, though the window 
was wide open. She was sitting behind the curtain, 
and could not see into the street. It was a quiet, 
dull, uninteresting street, however, in which there 
was nothing to be seen. So absorbing were the 
girl’s thoughts, that though she was conscious of 
hearing the bell ring, she thought no more of it 
until the drawing-room door was suddenly opened, 
and the servant announced Dr. Windridge. Doris 
put down her seam and rose with crimson face 
Why ? Because she had been thinking of him at 
the moment ; she had been thinking how entirely 


308 DORIS CHEYNE. 

she had passed out of his life, and he out of hers ; 
she had not seen him for many months — not, indeed, 
since a few weeks after Josephine’s marriage. 

‘Dr. Windridge, I am surprised to see you/ she 
said. ‘I thought you had forgotten the way to 
Keswick/ 

‘No; I have remembered it perhaps too well/ 
he said, as he took the slender hand, grown smooth 
and white now, in his firm clasp. 

‘Mrs. Boothroyd has so often spoken of you/ 
said Doris. ‘ She is tired to-day ; the heat is so 
trying. But I hope she will be able to see you 
before you go. Do sit down and let us talk. I 
do not feel at all strange to you, though I have 
not seen you for so long.’ 

‘ Do you not ? ’ 

Windridge asked the question quietly, and even 
carelessly, but his eyes said something very different. 
Perhaps he wished she would not so frankly 
acknowledge her pleasure at seeing him; the old 
familiar friendship was not now enough for him. 
He had waited the test of time, he had done 
nothing to strengthen his attachment to this girl, 
and now he knew she was the woman who would 


HER PLACE. 


309 


make his life’s happiness. He had come to ask 
that that sweet friendship might be merged in a 
dearer relationship ; he had come to ask her to 
become his wife. But those clear eyes, so fearlessly 
meeting his, the grave, womanly face so frankly 
turned towards him, the unaffected, unembarrassed 
manner made him tremble. Hone of these promised 
him a happy answer to his pleading. 

* You look well. I have never seen you look better, 
Miss Doris. It is an unspeakable source of thankful- 
ness to me that you have at last been able to rest a 
little. The past was too much for you ; it used to 
•unman me to think of what you had to do and to bear.’ 

‘It was a happy life, though/ she said, folding 
her hands above her work, and turning her eyes for 
a moment dreamily towards the setting sun. ‘I 
am selfish and ungrateful, I fear, Dr. Windridge, but 
I sometimes feel as if this life, sweet and easeful 
though it is, will kill me with stagnation. What 
do you suppose is to become of a being so utterly 
ungrateful and unreasonable as I ? ’ 

She brought her eyes on his face with a sudden, 
swift glance as she asked the question ; but Wind- 
ridge did not immediately answer. 


3 IO 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


1 Have you no question to ask about them all ? * 
she asked blithely, taking up her seam again, after 
a moment’s silence. ‘ Do you know that I have 
attained to the dignity of Aunt Doris now ? — that a 
little Charlie Boothroyd has arrived at Bombay. They 
are all well, and of course there never was such a baby.’ 

‘I knew of his advent/ smiled Windridge. ‘I 
was at Carlisle one day last week, and dined at 
Barnes Edge. What a charming mistress your 
sister makes of the old house ! I came away 
thinking Barnett a very lucky fellow.’ 

‘ They are very happy ; but Kitty would be happy 
anywhere. I often envy her her sunny nature and 
contentment. I wish she would impart her secret 
to me.’ 

Windridge did not say what he thought, that 
there could be no comparison between the two. 
Kitty was happy and gay and bright indeed, but 
she had neither the depth of character nor the 
nobility of soul which Doris possessed. 

‘ Your sister is having a very successful career in 
London. Her name is on every lip. I have wondered 
how you take it all,’ said Windridge presently, 
approaching more nearly to dangerous ground. 


HER PLACE. 


3 1 1 

Doris’s lip trembled. Miriam was a very sore 
subject with her. 

* I suppose I ought to be glad, but I have thought 
sometimes that had she been less successful she 
might not have been so utterly lost to us.’ 

‘ Have you seen her lately ? ’ 

‘ No, not since before mamma went to India. She 
did not behave well to us at that time. I did not 
tell you at the wedding, when you asked where she 
was, that I had seen her only a few weeks before.’ 

‘No, you did not. I understood that you had 
never seen her since she left this house.’ 

‘ When it was settled that mother and Josephine 
were going to Bombay, I went to see Miriam, to 
ask her to allow me to make my home with her. 
She was very cold and distant, and she refused. 
She said I should be no help, but a hindrance to 
her, because I was too particular and narrow in my 
views. I felt it very much, and I believe I spoke 
hastily. We parted, if not in anger, at least coldly. 
I regretted it so much, that after I came home I 
wrote to her, asking her forgiveness, but she never 
answered it. I have written to her several times 
since, but with the same result. Last week she 


3 12 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


sent me a cheque for a hundred pounds, without a 
word or a line attached. I felt that very much. I 
shall not use the money, but shall return it to her 
some day when I see her.’ 

‘ I saw her on the stage in London early in April, 
Miss Doris/ 

* Did you ? I do not ask what impression she 
made upon you. I am not interested in her 
professional career. I may be bigoted and narrow, 
but I shall never grow reconciled to her public 
life. It is not for a woman, it cannot fail to take 
the fine edge off her nature.’ 

‘ There is no doubt about her genius, but I did 
not think she looked happy,’ said Windridge. 

‘ Did she see you ? ’ 

‘ No. I left before the performance was over.’ 

Doris would have liked to ask another question, 
but she refrained. She did not wish to touch a 
painful chord in the surgeon’s memory. 

‘ You are still very busy, I suppose ? I hear 
you have two assistants now,’ she said presently. 

‘ I have. My main object in coming to-night was 
to tell you of a change I am about to make. I 
leave Grasmere in August.’ 


HER PLACE . 


3i3 


‘ Leave Grasmere ! Why, I thought you would 
be there all your life/ 

‘So did I at one time, but I have changed my 
views. My friend Dr. Man son, of Manchester, and 
I have agreed to make an exchange. He has 
an immense practice in one of the most populous 

r 

districts in Manchester, and his health has failed 
him under the strain. It is imperative for his 
wife’s sake also that they should make a change. 
So in August he comes to Grasmere, and I go to 
obtain a new experience as a city physician. What 
do you think of it ? ’ 

*1 can see your friend’s object in coming to 
Grasmere, but yours is not quite so clear,’ said 
Doris. ‘ You are so much beloved where you now 
are, that I cannot think you will be any better 
where you are going/ 

‘I want new experiences, wider ranges for my 
sympathies ; I am stagnating, growing indolent and 
selfish, in spite of my hard work. It is time for 
me to go/ 

4 You are very conscientious ; I wish you every 

success, Dr. Windridge,’ Doris said, in a low 

voice. She felt as if the last link which bound 
27 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


3 r 4 

her to the old life were about to be snapped. She 
could not understand the dull feeling of misery 
which crept over her. She felt alone, desolate ; she 
marvelled at herself. 

Windridge rose to his feet. He was pale, and 
when he spoke it was in a hesitating voice, very 
different from his usual clear, calm utterances. A 
strange feeling came over Doris. She laid down 
her work, and allowed her eyes to meet those of 
Windridge. 

* Doris, will you come with me and help me ? 
I have been too long alone. There is no woman 
who will make life what you could for me. I love 
you with my whole soul.* 

Doris covered her face with her hands. She was 
overcome with surprise, and also with the wild thrill 
of happiness caused by his words. She knew in a 
moment that this was her destiny, from which she 
could not, dare not, turn away. 

* You know my whole past, but if you could ever 
care for me, I entreat you do not let anything 
therein stand between us. This is the love which 
makes or mars a man’s happiness, the other was a 
foolish passion which could not stand the test of 


HER PLACE. 


3i5 

change. Doris, let me see your face. I am in 
fearful earnest/ 

But Doris neither spoke nor moved. 

* I am not worthy of you/ he continued, with the 
humility of a great earnestness. *1 have no right 
to expect you to answer me just at once; but if 
you think that in time you might trust yourself 
with me, give me a word of hope to carry with me 
to my new sphere of labour. You spoke a little ago 
of being weary of this quiet life. There is much to 
do in that great city, Doris. Will you come ? ’ 

Doris raised her head. Her fine eyes, shining 
with a new and lovely light, met his. 

‘ I will come/ she said quietly, and gave him her 
hand. 

So the old friendship received its crown. Hence- 
forth these two would be sufficient, one to the other. 

♦ •§••••• 

It was a sultry July afternoon, and great London 
was oppressed by the hot, merciless glare of a 
midsummer sun. Although windows were opened 
wide, no air entered the stifling rooms ; it was one 
of those days on which it is a burden almost to 
breathe. In the small but elegantly furnished 


3 1 6 DORIS CHE YNE. 

boudoir of a bijou house at St. John’s Wood, a 
beautiful woman, attired in a rich dressing-gown, 
was lying on a sofa in an attitude of listless 
weariness. Elowers were about her everywhere, the 
air was laden with their rich perfume, a little bird 
in a gilded cage trilled a sweet melodious strain, a 
pet spaniel with wistful melancholy eyes lay at her 
feet looking at her with almost human affection. 
Miriam Cheyne needed none of these things. She 
was weary, weary, almost sick unto death of her 
way of life. A pile of unopened letters and a few 
newspapers lay on the table near her, and though 
the latter contained glowing eulogiums on her 
performance of the previous evening, they were of 
no more value than waste paper in her eyes. 
Miriam Cheyne was a dissatisfied, miserable woman. 
Of what was she thinking as she lay there, with 
her white arms folded above her golden head ? what 
tender thought had softened her proud face, and filled 
the haughty eyes with such a lovely light ? She was 
thinking of a leafy lane among towering hills, of a 
still grey winter’s afternoon, of two figures walking side 
by side within sight of Rydal Mere. She saw a man’s 
grave, earnest, thoughtful face; she heard his voice say: 


VIEW FROM RYDAL MOUNT 



317 











HER PLACE. 


319 


‘ Give me the right to work for you.’ 

Miriam Cheyne was regretting the past, and 
something more. She was meditating upon trying 
to recall that lost happiness ; she knew now that 
her love was given to Gabriel Windridge, and that 
only life with him would satisfy the deep yearnings 
of her heart. She had weighed fame in the balance 
with love, and had found it wanting. If love were 
still within her reach, she would seek to make it 
her own. But she was a proud woman, and though 
no doubt of Gabriel Windridge’s unaltered regard 
troubled her, she could not bring herself to ask him 
to come back. She made her plans as she lay there, 
and a sweet smile wreathed her lips, as in imagina- 
tion she pictured the happy ending. When the 
season ended, she would ask to be allowed to visit 
Doris at Sunbury Villa, and while there would see 
Windridge. One short meeting would make him 
understand that she was willing to give up all for 
his sake. She would be very humble, she told 
herself; she would atone to him for all she had 
made him suffer. Then her happy imaginings 
carried her into the future, where happiness and 
love and rest awaited her — through him. It did 


320 


DORIS CHEYNE. 


not occur to her, even as a passing thought, that it 
might he now too late. 

‘A letter for you, Miss Cheyne,’ her maid said, 
entering the room with a salver in her hand. 

‘ Put it down here beside the others, Kathleen, 
and bring me a cup of tea in half an hour. I shall 
require to be dressed to-night by half-past six. Get 
my things ready.’ 

‘Ver y well, ma’am.’ 

Miss Cheyne turned her head as she addressed 
the girl, and as the letter was placed on the table, 
she caught sight of the handwriting, and her face 
flushed. It was that of Doris. 

She did not open it until the maid had left the 
room, and that was well. Only a few lines were 
written on the sheet of note paper, but they were of 
terrible interest for Miriam Cheyne. 

‘ Sunbury Villa, Keswick, July 23. 

‘My Dear Miriam, — Although you have not 
answered any of my letters during the past year, 
I think it right to tell you of a great change about 
to take place in my life. I am to be married to 
Dr. Windridge in Grasmere Church on the fifth 


HER PLACE . 


3 2 


of next month, and after a short tour on the 
Continent, we go to make our home in Manchester, 
Dr. Windridge having exchanged his practice with a 
medical man in that city. Tosamond is to be my 
only bridesmaid, and Uncle Tenfold, of course, will 
give me away. You know that if you can or will 
accompany them, it will remove the only shadow 
which might rest upon my wedding - day. You are 
ceaselessly in my heart and prayers. — I am, dear 
Miriam, your loving sister, Douis Ciieyne.’ 

Miriam Cheyne crushed the letter in her hand, 
and burying her face in her cushions, lay absolutely 
still. The little spaniel crept up to her and licked 
her clenched hand, showing his dumb sympathy with 
the mistress he loved ; but she heeded him not, she 
was crushed by the blow which had fallen upon her. 

In her blind ambition and worship of self, she 
had forgotten that love cannot always wait. Having 
whispered itself to her heart once, and finding her 
cold as ice, it had passed her by for evermore. 

• ••••••• 

It is not my purpose here to dwell upon the after 
life of Doris Cheyne. Sufficient to say that she is 


3 22 


DOR IS CHEYNE. 


the receiver and the giver of many blessings, and 
that her life is not ended, but only begun. 

It is, and will be, a noble life in the truest sense 
of the word, because she regards it as a trust from 
God. If we can so regard our lot, whatever it may 
be, many difficulties and perplexities will be removed 
from our path. 

It has been of use to me to record these early 
experiences of Doris — a woman possessed of no 
special gifts, but who nevertheless, with God’s help, 
was able to be a blessing to so many. 

She asked that something might be given her to 
do, that her life-work might be made plain, and then 
took up with earnestness what was at hand. And 
that I cannot but think the true secret of earnest 
living, not to be perpetually yearning and striving 
after what is beyond us — 

* It is the distant and the dim 
That we are fain to greet ; 

A man’s best things are nearest him — 

Lie close about his feet.’ 











































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